Blackfish Out Of Water
by jacobk
Summary: Brynden Tully wakes up with that worst of all possible curses, an unprepared self-insert. He knows a whole bunch of supernatural nonsense is about to wreck his kingdom. If he wants to do anything about it, he's going to need an army. Self-Insert, SI, no tech uplift or gunpowder
1. Chapter 1

That worst of all self indulgences, the self insert. This will be my project for blowing off steam and procrastinating on other things I should be doing. I can, as always, be swayed by audience interest.

The self being inserted here is me before I went on my ASoIaF SI reading binge a few weeks ago, so "my" knowledge is a little spotty.

ooOoo

 _Say one thing about the Iron Bank of Braavos, say they know how to build a waiting room. Enormous, all done up in marble, subtly elevated thrones for the bankers and simple benches for the visitor. They didn't miss a trick. Say two things about the Iron Bank, say they aren't shy about making a man wait. It had been a good hour and a half since I'd been let into the room, and there was still no sign of our hosts._

 _I'd occupied the time by looking out the window and admiring the wonderful view over Fantasy Ancient Greece. Even from up here it was pretty obvious how much better they had their shit together compared to King's Landing. Sometimes I wondered if they had never conquered Westeros only because they weren't quite sure the dragons were really gone. I suppose their passion for the Greek national hobby of warring with their rival cities had kept them busy, too._

 _Hopefully there's no Fantasy Alexander coming down the pike in one of the books I never read. There's nothing like the random self-insert experience to make you regret putting your real work ahead of your fantasy reading._

 _Walder Frey was hovering by my elbow. Not that Walder Frey. One of the younger ones. He was the least cunty Frey I'd been able to find, as evidenced by his ability to follow directions and keep his fucking mouth shut while we were inside the Iron Bank. The Freys as a whole were kind of a mess, but they were also one of the most powerful of House Tully's vassals. If I could turn a Frey into a decent, functional adult, that would give my brother one less thing to bitch at me about. Not that he would feel the lack._

 _The Iron Bank's sense of showmanship extended to the dramatic entrance. The three bank representatives entered together. They almost marched in step to their designated thrones, and sat as if on a pre-arranged signal. The one in the middle seemed to be their spokesman._

 _"Welcome to the Iron Bank."_

 _His command of Westerosi common was flawless, which was a relief. I had access to dim childhood memories of learning High Valyrian and I'd been doing my best to pick up the Low Valyrian that was the common language of Essos, but it was slow going. Useful as it could be to be thought of as an uncultured barbarian, I'd rather be able to communicate clearly. Besides, they probably thought I was a barbarian anyways._

 _I followed his directions and took a seat on the bench._

 _"Ser Brynden Tully. How can we help you?"_

 _"Perhaps we can help each other," I said. "After the recent excitement, we've got a lot of young men out west with a taste of battle who don't want to settle down to the quiet life. And perhaps one or two old men as well."_

 _I pulled a sheaf of papers from a pocket and set it down on the table. The unnecessarily large marble table. I slid it out until it was within reach of the spokesman before continuing._

 _"I figure I can raise a thousand men easily enough. Take some time getting them used to working as a unit, then start hiring on as sellswords. If things go well, we can expand later."_

 _He took a moment to page through the papers I'd handed him. He had a pretty good poker face, but I could tell he was surprised. And well he should be. This was probably the only time on this planet that the ability to put together a decent financial pitch would be worth a damn, so I'd gone all out. Startup costs, projected revenues and expenses in baseline, optimistic, and pessimistic scenarios, all the assumptions spelled out and justified. I even had a market survey comparing the fees and services offered by other sellswords, along with the implied wage paid by those who went with the Unsullied for their defensive needs. It was a nice piece of work. It was a shame that my public image demanded that I not take credit for it._

 _"If this is accurate, I don't see why you need money from us at all."_

 _"I know a few things about war, but business?" I said, shrugging. "Now, if the Iron Bank takes a look at my plans and opens their vaults, I'll know my idea's worth something."_

 _It was true, too. Just because these guys had never heard of Black-Scholes didn't mean they were stupid. They were running a multi national banking empire without so much as a calculator. They had real practical knowledge about operating a business in Essos where I only had speculation._

 _Of course, having the Iron Bank invested in my success would be useful in other ways. Especially if I was going to be bidding on Braavosi government contracts. It was usually considered gauche to mention that kind of thing out loud, though._

 _He was nodding along, so I kept going. "And while I might think I've got enough gold to see me through, one thing I've learned over the years is that things seldom go exactly to plan. Having more gold on hand can't hurt."_

 _That was just common sense._

 _"Still, I have to say," he replied, "in my experience those of the Sunset Kingdoms prefer to keep their lending in the family if at all possible. I know the Riverlands suffered in the recent fighting, but I did not think it was in truly dire straits."_

 _However delicately put, he was questioning my family's solvency. This is where I could have really sold the barbarian sucker image by getting all pissy. By the time that thought even crossed my mind, though, I had already given in to my first instinct and thrown back my head and laughed out loud._

 _"My brother would give me that much money and more... just as soon as I married the girl of his choice," I said. "You can consider that a surety, if you want. I consider it a last resort."_

 _They were taken aback by the laughter, but settled down at the explanation. The spokesman glanced at his colleagues, receiving a shallow nod from each, then turned back to me._

 _"We'll need to take some time to decide the particulars, but I don't see any reason we can't work together," he said. I felt the knot in my stomach loosen, and gave him a nod in reply. "There was one thing in your papers, a phrase I didn't recognize. What are 'naming rights'?"_

 _"Well, I'm going to be creating one of the finest companies of sellswords in the land here," I said, smiling. "I haven't settled on a name yet... but I thought 'the Iron Men' had a nice ring to it."_

ooOoo

When I woke up and saw the stars above me, the first thing that went through my mind was: _I didn't think I was out camping last night_. The second thought was: _by the Seven, Edmure snores fit to wake the dead_.

This was not followed by an extended bout of panicking largely, I think, due to my access to Brynden Tully's memories. I remembered riding south with the levies of the Riverlands. I remembered accepting Edmure as my squire. I remembered the Battle of the Trident. I remembered arriving at King's Landing to find it already taken by the Lannisters. I remembered riding back north, shedding levies along the way, until only the men of Riverrun itself were sleeping in the woods surrounding Edmund and me.

I also remembered reading the first few books in the song of ice and fire series several years ago, and always meaning to get around to watching the tv show. I remembered that somebody had put together a handy list of facts for time travelers to memorize, and thinking that it might be a good idea to take a look at it some time. I remembered that gunpowder exploded and probably had sulfur in it. My last hands-on engineering project was the raggedy chessboard I built in shop class that my mom had pretended to admire.

Well, nobody's perfect.

All this thinking did not lead to an existential crisis. Brynden Tully wasn't really the kind of guy who was susceptible to that kind of thing. For me, personally, the situation was so far beyond what I had ever considered possible that it was hard to get worked up about the metaphysics. Besides, there was plenty going on in the regular old physical world for me to worry about.

Westeros had just finished up a civil war. The end result had been to put Robert Baratheon on the throne. While Brynden remembered Robert as quite the inspiring badass on the battlefield, what he knew of his personality was perfectly consistent with my recollection of the guy who was almost, but not quite, the complete opposite of a good king. So in fifteen-shit, maybe eighteen, I remembered Robb was full grown when the fun started-anyways, in fifteen years _or so_ we were due for a real humdinger of another civil war, possibly followed by a zombie invasion. Or dragons. Maybe both.

The question was whether I could do anything about it. I wanted to. I could feel a real familial tie to Catelyn and Lysa that went beyond the residual affection I felt for them as characters. I'd really like for them and their kids to get through everything unmurdered and unraped.

Wait, didn't Lysa do something really fucked up? Or was I just thinking that because all the named characters did fucked up stuff? It was hard to square with my memories of her as a sweet little girl who was so kind, even to nobodies like Petyr Baelish. Shit, there was something about him, too.

Well, anyways, there were severe limits on what I could do. As the younger brother of a Lord Paramount I was reasonably high up there, socially. I could even insult Tywin Lannister to his face and not die. Probably. But exerting outright influence on the public policy of the kingdom? On the basis of vague premonitions? That was beyond me.

I could go the covert intrigue route. I knew the plotters, and some of the plans. The problem was, Brynden had always been a straightforward kind of guy. I myself might know my way around office politics, but office politics never really involved putting your life on the line, at least in my experience. Even if I didn't remember the details, I did remember that the books featured plenty of plots, counter-plots, Xanatos gambits, murders, and rapes. I was safe from that last bit-probably-but I didn't at all like my odds as some kind of spymaster.

Honestly, if you wanted to play the game of thrones properly you needed an army.

ooOoo


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Almost looks like a plot developing.

ooOoo

Brynden Tully was a grown-ass man. Accordingly, his instincts only reinforced my annoyance when Hoster Tully elected to pepper our welcoming feast with comments expressing his hope that I would finally settle down and get to work filling out a cadet branch of the family. What really stuck in my craw was that by the standards of our society he was being generous. He had every right to order me to marry someone of his choosing and exile me for refusal. Tolerating my defiance had cost him some face. Not enough to lead to outright rebellions or anything, but I know he had had to deal with other people testing him with bullshit after seeing him put up with mine.

It wasn't even like I was against getting married in principle. Brynden's continued refusal had resulted in some pretty decent negotiating leverage. It was tempting to find a sweet young thing with vast tracts of land and get busy living like a lord. The problem was that doing so would mean giving up most of my ability to influence the outside world.

Don't get me wrong: Brynden Tully had a reputation. When he talked, people listened. It actually kind of weirded me out at first. If I took on a lordship somewhere, though, I'd be limited to talking about local issues. To be fair, I would always be part of my brother's inner circle. That was valuable in the Riverlands, but carried only so much weight in the greater realm. I could live a perfectly comfortable life that way right up until the moment of the dragon zombie civil war invasion.

I could try and get down to King's Landing, but I had a really hard time imagining myself earning the king's trust. It wasn't like he would do anything about my future knowledge if I sent it to him in an anonymous letter. I could picture it now: "Dear Robert: Cersei is fucking her brother. The pretty one. Also, Littlefinger is robbing you blind. GL & HF!" Yeah, spy versus spy wasn't going to be my scene.

Holy shit, Littlefinger! That was Edmure's stupid nickname for the Baelish kid. That hit me with some Keyser Soze level cognitive dissonance. It was hard to reconcile Brynden's memories of the sweet romantic young man with the mastermind behind ninety percent of what had gone wrong in fictional Westeros. Add another name to the list of people I wouldn't mind seeing come down with a bad case of death. This one I might be able to do something about.

Anyway, Hoster wasn't as clever as he thought he was and was probably rather more annoying than he thought he was being. Sadly, that was nothing new for Brynden. A part of me might have sympathized with "The Late" Lord Frey's eventual decision to slaughter as many of Hoster's descendants as he could manage, but I was able to grit my teeth, put on a smile, and focus on enjoying the food.

As was our custom, I met with Hoster the next morning in his solar. It was a chance to talk business without my brother feeling the need to play for the crowd.

"So, we've won," Hoster said, once we'd each settled down with our refreshments. "The Lannisters have joined the cause and Ned Stark is even now marching to relieve the siege at Storm's End. Mace Tyrell won't fight for long in a losing cause."

"Yes," I replied. "Victory."

I put a bit of an ironic inflection on the last word, which drew a sharp glance from Hoster. I was surprised at his harsh reaction until a bit of reflection reminded me that Brynden Tully's second favorite hobby as a young man had been to use precisely that tone of voice when fucking with his brother.

"Are you so displeased with peace, then? Surely the burden of avoiding marriage rests easier on your shoulders than war?"

He was probably expecting praise for his foresight in marrying his daughters off to two of the rising powers in the realm. And, hey, more power to him. I don't care who your allies are, throwing in with a rebel alliance to battle a three hundred year old dynasty-and winning!-that's pretty impressive. Still, what was family for if not to help keep your ego in check? He had plenty of people at his court who were more than capable of blowing smoke up his ass.

"Peace is sweet, aye. And we are well rid of Aerys's madness. Still, three things trouble me," I said, as I began ticking them off on my fingers. "The Lannisters are cunts. The Dornish are a bunch of angry cunts. And the Targaryens are fucking furious cunts."

Hoster wore a wry grin at my choice of language, but he didn't dismiss my concerns out of hand. "Take them in turn, then. I would have liked Tywin to join our side sooner, but you can only expect so much when his heir is held hostage."

"Sure, and then he decided to make up for his delay with cruelty. The sack of King's Landing was vicious. Accomplished by betrayal, too. Tywin's son decided to honor his oath to the Kingsguard by killing the king," I said, then paused and took a drink. "And I'm fairly certain it was Tywin's men that killed Elia Martell and her children. It was messy."

"Tywin Lannister is a hard man," Hoster said, his gaze level. "Sometimes hard times call for hard men."

By the Seven, I was going to have to have the hard men making hard decisions conversation in real life. This really is a grimdark world. I doubted Hoster would be so sanguine when Tywin was making those hard decisions about his own grandkids, but that was nothing more than wild speculation right now. All I could do was make my point and move on.

"It's one thing for a man to do what he must," I said, shaking my head. "It's another thing entirely when an animal slips its leash and runs wild. Especially if he provoked a war with the Dornish."

"The Dornish have always been a thorn in the side of the Iron Throne. Still, they've never shown much taste for conquest," Hoster said. "I'm inclined to let Robert and Jon worry about keeping them in line. I'm curious, though, what troubles you about the Targaryens? They must be a spent force, now, mother and child holed up on Dragonstone."

"The dragons fled on ships, yes. They say to Dragonstone, but I don't see why they'd stop there. Why not continue on? I'd wager they're halfway to Qarth by now. There's plenty of men in Essos who fight for coin, and the Targaryens were never short of gold."

"Surely you don't think a sellsword army could overcome the men of Westeros."

I shrugged. "It wouldn't have to overcome all of them. Just put a credible host in the field and wait for everybody with a grievance to rise up and join the restoration. Even if they lose they could still make a bloody mess of things."

Hoster didn't say anything, so I continued. "We've both heard the mummers' tales and spies' whispers, but there are scant few sober military accounts of Essosi fighting prowess. With your blessing, I will tour Essos and return with a report of just what kind of army a wealthy Targaryen could piece together, and what we'd need to do to stop it."

ooOoo

It wasn't quite as simple as that, of course. I had to agree to actually meet with the next girl Hoster wanted me to marry. I also had to bring along a couple of minor nobles on my trip. Lads with a taste for adventure and well out of the line of succession, not unlike myself. I suspect they were also chosen because of their unwed sisters, but I nipped that talk in the bud early in our voyage.

My brother's generosity had extended to providing a ship and crew. He'd even managed to scare up a genuine native Essosi guide to show us around and hopefully keep us from getting murdered. Either I'd really sold him on my mission, or he considered this a small price to pay not to have me kicking around Riverrun defying his orders. The ship sailed the same speed either way, so I didn't dwell on it.

We started out hitting the western shore of Essos, staying well clear of Dragonstone and working our way south. Braavos, Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, Lys. We talked to sellswords when we could, sounded out their clients when they were available, and listened to anybody who wanted to talk. Everywhere we went, we heard the same thing. The greatest warriors on Essos were the Dothraki. The best sellswords were the Golden Company. But the scariest sons of bitches were the Unsullied.

That was why we were on our way to Astapor. Slaver's Bay was well beyond the usual Westerosi trade routes, both due to distance and due to their primary export being slaves. We picked up a navigator in Volantis to see us safely to our destination. The sailors there claimed it was an easy trip as long as you didn't do something stupid like sail into the Smoking Sea, but I felt better when the person making that kind of claim had their own life on the line as well.

Sailing around the old Valyrian peninsula was eerie enough. Whatever hell the Valyrians had called down on themselves apparently still had some vitality to it, judging by the smoke looming over their remains. My memories from the book agreed with Brynden's scraps of knowledge: the Valyrians were into some kind of awful blood magic that came back to bite them in the worst way. Even sailing in sight of that disaster was closer than I really wanted to be.

I distracted myself from the view by reviewing my notes and figures. Most of the sellswords that we'd met had been a bit underwhelming. They were solid fighters, but nothing revolutionary. They mostly followed the Westerosi model where tactics and strategy played out during the lead up to battle. Once the fight began they, like us, mostly looked to move en masse into general melee and trust in individual skill at arms to carry the day. In general I would put them as roughly equivalent to the better levees. Well-equipped, experienced infantry.

I was hoping to put some solid numbers together to replace the mixture of rumor and supposition that was our daily fare. You might think that if you woke up in a medieval society the thing you would miss most would be air travel. Or automobiles. Or toilet paper. And those things are great and sorely missed. I'd just add that you shouldn't underestimate the impact of google on your day to day life. It's incredibly frustrating to be unable to answer a simple factual question like: if you toured Essos with an infinite pot of gold, what kind of army could you put together?

I remembered that was more or less Dany's plan. Well, that plus dragons. I remembered that it had taken her a while to send her foreign hordes pouring into Westeros, but it was bound to happen eventually. The first step in getting ready for it was figuring out what exactly would be headed our way. Vaguely remembered words on a page were no substitute for the evaluating eye of a fighting man. Thus, our trip to Astrapor.

Astrapor was not a beautiful city. It had a striking style to it, to be sure, with the red brick construction and the enormous pyramids. But the architecture was lacking something. Call it grace, call it elegance, call it joie de vivre, there was something missing from Astrapor that I had gotten used to seeing in the Free Cities.

It didn't help that the city symbol was a harpy clutching a set of manacles. It was one of the uglier things I'd ever seen people voluntarily choose to represent themselves. It was also a stark reminder that this city was built on slavery. Our guide, a Braavosi named Agnolo Lasko, was visibly pale as we disembarked from the ship. I rather belatedly realized what a horrible thing I was asking him to do, and walked over to speak with him.

"We can find another translator if-"

"No."

Agnolo was a small, largely non-threatening middle-aged man, but he had steel in his spine as he stood straight and looked me in the eye. I was a bit put out by the interruption, but let him continue.

"You do this to keep slavers from coming to Riverlands, yes?"

I nodded.

"Then I will be with you. No other translator."

I gave him another nod, then turned back to my companions.

"All right, you know the drill."

Standing on the left was Walder Frey. Not the Walder Frey. Not young Walder Frey, that was somebody else. Not Black Walder. No, he was actually known within the family as "other Walder." If you let a Frey talk they can happily walk you through the family tree and just how many people would have to die for them to inherit the Twins. I didn't really care. What I knew about Walder was that he was eighteen and not a complete cunt, despite his heritage. He did have a bit of that Frey weasel face, but he was a solidly built kid and for the most part followed directions.

Next to Walder was Rodrik Lolliston. He was seventeen and more than capable of drinking me under the table, as I had discovered to my chagrin in Pentos. He claimed that his sister made the best lemon cakes in the Riverlands, a fact that I cheerfully intended to avoid verifying. Compared to Walder he was tall and a bit gangly, his open face topped with a mop of red hair. Rodrik was the kind of guy that was hard not to like.

They both had a Westerosi noble's keen sense of honor and a teenager's ability to feel slights. I had developed our little litany the second time they almost started a duel.

"Keep our fucking mouths shut," they chorused together.

"Good, you can learn," I said. I let them chuckle, then fixed them with a serious look. "The people we are going to be meeting are the absolute scum of the earth. I'd kill them myself if I could. But I can't. More to the point, if they took a notion to do it they could kill us, kill our crew, and take our ship, and nobody would do a damn thing about it. We're here to gather information for my brother. We can't get that information to him if we're chopped up in little pieces on the bottom of Slaver's bay. So don't do anything stupid."

ooOoo

After our meeting with the slaver I needed a drink, and I wasn't alone. Agnolo usually needed us to reject several of his preferred hoity toity wine bars before finding a good drinking spot, but today he led us straight to a dive that fit the mood perfectly. The kind of place where a bar fight was always on the verge of breaking out. I wouldn't mind the excuse to punch something very hard after the day we'd had.

We all sat in silence until the waitress came around with four oversized mugs of beer. I hadn't even noticed when Agnolo placed the order. The arrival of the booze jarred loose our tongues before we even had anything to drink.

"Fucking cunts," Walder said, taking hold of his mug.

"Fucking cunts," Rodrik echoed.

The bare facts of the Unsullied are horrifying enough: eunuch soldiers, trained from birth for perfect obedience and ruthlessly culled for any failure to measure up physically. At the beginning of training, each boy is given a puppy to take care of. One year later they have to strangle the puppy to death. To finish their training they go down to the slave market, purchase a newborn child, and kill it in front of its mother. Like I said, bad enough. When you top that off by watching a slave trader carve up a living man like a piece of meat while extolling the features of his product like he's selling a goddamn iPhone, there are no words. Still, I tried to find some.

"Lads," I said, picking up my mug, "after today, if anybody ever asks if you've seen true evil, you answer yes."

The hell of it was this: _they were good at what they did_. I recognized a phalanx when I saw one. My memories of medieval history combined with Brynden's eye for battle told a grim tale as we watched the slave trader put his group through their paces. The Unsullied would go through most of our levees like crap through a goose. That perfect discipline, amazing coordination, and sheer concentrated killing power was something that a part-time soldier just couldn't handle. Our knights and our own professional soldier types might be able to put a dent in them, but we didn't crank fighters out on a fucking conveyor belt the way the slavers did.

While I'd been spinning tales for Hoster, my main concern was the inevitable return of the dragons in the somewhat distant future. Sitting in that tavern in Astrapor, though, it finally sunk in that we had a more immediate problem. Anybody with enough money to spend could buy an army of Unsullied and instantly have the ability to raise hell up and down the Seven Kingdoms, if not conquer the whole thing outright.

Somebody really ought to do something about that.

ooOoo


	3. Chapter 3

AN: I think in canon the Unsullied get kind of short shrift as boogeymen due to all the other supernatural shit going on.

ooOoo

I did my brother the courtesy of letting him know when I would be returning to Riverrun. He repaid me by inviting his latest engagement attempt to my welcoming feast. I've pulled some pointlessly petty dick moves in my time, but this really took the cake. I mean, how long had he been hosting her at the castle? Sometimes you just have to admit when you've been outmaneuvered, though, so I put on my best ladykiller grin and set out to endure the attentions of Darla Blackwood for the evening.

She was pretty, at least. Dark hair, pale complexion, and delicate features. She had a sort of slightly ethereal appearance that Brynden associated with House Blackwood. She wasn't my precise type, but I could see her growing on me. Of course, a pretty face was hardly enough reason to get married.

She smiled at me as I took my seat next to her. She had a nice smile. Of course, a nice smile was hardly reason enough to get married.

"I hear tell you're just back from Essos, Ser Brynden."

I nodded.

"So casual. You know, I've never travelled farther from home than I am right now," she said. Her smile turned wistful. "Tell me, what was the most impressive sight on your journey?"

Mentioning Astrapor was probably a bad idea at the dinner table. On the other hand, I was hardly in the mood for a prim and proper dinner conversation. The beauty of being the Blackfish is that being an ass is almost expected of me in this situation.

"Actually, the most striking thing was something I didn't see. The harbor in Braavos is behind a narrow channel. They've built an enormous statute, they call it the Titan, straddling all the way across the channel."

I paused for a moment, waiting until she moved to take a sip of her wine. "When we sailed beneath I looked for a great set of brass bollocks. Sad to say, the statue was only equipped with murder holes."

Slightly to my disappointment, I was not rewarded with a spit take. Instead, she calmly finished her drink of wine, then favored me with an innocent smile.

"Why, ser, I can't imagine why you felt you missed a grand sight, when rumor has it you see such a thing every day before you dress."

Seven be praised, my brother had found a girl with a personality. It was an honest to goodness miracle. Of course, one joke was hardly enough reason to get married.

She had managed to jolt me from my polite-for-company smile into an honest grin. I took a drink of wine and got myself back under control.

"I find people say a great many things about me. Some of the rumors are even true."

She leaned forward at that, a spark of interest in her eyes. "Which rumors would those be?"

"I could just tell you... but where's the fun in that?"

ooOoo

"I've a few holdings to choose from for you and the Ravenwood girl."

Hoster didn't waste any time. I'd only just walked into the solar for our morning meeting and he was already planning my wedding. I held up a hand and walked over to the sideboard, which had been thoughtfully stocked with a selection of wines. I knocked back a quick swallow of a watered red and paused for a moment with my eyes closed.

"Brother, please, let me go at least one day after talking to a pretty girl before you start arranging our marriage."

"Ah, you thought she was pretty?"

Brynden Tully had spent most of his adult life learning how to fight or training others in how to fight. He played major roles in two wars. All of which is to say that when I put some effort into it, I could manage a dead eyed stare that would give even a Lord Paramount pause.

Hoster sighed. "Perhaps you'd be more interested in talking about somebody else's marriage. I'd have your thoughts on this."

He handed me a piece of paper. A missive from Jon Arryn describing his progress in arranging a betrothal between Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. As I read, it occurred to me that I was holding in my hands a piece of history. Properly preserved, it could sit in a museum alongside the commissioning of the Hindenburg and the navigational charts of the Titanic.

"Fucking cunts."

"Yes, you mentioned that opinion the last time you were here. I was hoping you could be more specific."

"Hoster, have you met Robert?"

"That's our king you're speaking of," he said, a warning note in his voice. "I did meet him, briefly, after the Battle of the Bells. I admit I was somewhat indisposed at the time."

I nodded. Hoster had suffered injuries at the Battle of the Bells that had left him unable to accompany the rebel army as it moved on to the Trident and then to King's Landing. Even now his breathing didn't sound quite right.

"He's our king, yes, but I also know the man. He's the best damn fighter I've ever seen, and he does have that knack for inspiring leadership. But I swear to you, the man could find wine and whores on a march through the desert," I said. "When he's happy, he drinks and fucks whores to celebrate. When he's sad, he drinks and fucks whores until he feels better. When he's angry, he drinks and fucks whores until he calms down. When he's calm, he'll get bored and start drinking and fucking whores."

"Would you like to travel down to King's Landing and try to rein in his appetites?"

I shook my head. That was Jon Arryn's problem, and I wished him the best of luck.

"That's not my point. My point is that he either needs a wife who's as wild as he is," I said, "or a wife who's so grateful to be queen that she'll overlook being humiliated."

"You think Cersei Lannister will be ungrateful?"

"She's a Lannister," I replied. "Five minutes after the wedding she'll decide being queen was her birthright. For fuck's sake, look at their house words. What do you think she'll do the first time she finds out Robert's sired a bastard?"

"A volatile situation," Hoster said, tapping his chin. "Of course, snubbing Tywin Lannister is not without risk either. Jon wants quite badly to bind the Westerlands to the rest of our alliance."

He fell silent, waiting. I wasn't going to say it. I absolutely wasn't going to say it. I liked Edmure. Both the character and the person. He was a good kid. I felt bad putting him in the way of the crazy train that was Cersei Lannister, but civil war was a horrible thing. Sometimes, for the good of the realm, you just had to bite the bullet and marry the smoking hot blonde from the filthy rich family.

Hmm. Put it like that, it didn't sound so bad.

"Edmure is available for a betrothal, I suppose," Hoster said.

"House Tully, the mortar holding the realm together."

Hoster gave me an evaluating look. "Edmure and Cersei. What do you think?"

"Kid's a sucker for a pretty face. She'd have him wrapped around her little finger in no time flat," I said. Edmure would love every minute of it, but that didn't seem worth mentioning to his father. "You'd have to keep her in line."

"You don't think I'd be swayed by her winning smile?"

"I've never gotten anywhere with mine."

That earned a sharp bark of laughter. He scribbled a few notes on the letter before setting it aside.

"You've given me much to think about, brother."

"There's more, I'm afraid."

He favored me with an indulgent smile. "Ah, yes, your investigation."

I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket and tossed it onto his desk. "Essosi sellsword companies. Those are the ones made up of solid veterans who know what they're on about. If you're willing to accept more irregular performance you could probably scrounge up half again as many men."

The smile faded from his face as he worked his way down the column of numbers. I watched him trace his finger down the page, whispering numbers under his breath as he worked. When he got down to the end he looked up and there was fresh worry in his gaze. I felt a pang of guilt at causing him pain, but I forced it down. Dealing with shit like this was part of his job and my end goal was after all the preservation of his family.

"This is rather a lot of sellswords."

"Have you ever been inside of a water mill? Watched it work?"

He shook his head no.

"It's fascinating stuff. Gears and shafts and bits and pieces of machinery all whirling about. Damned if I could say what any of the pieces do, but you feed grain in one end and you get flour out the other," I said. "Essos is a vast machine that takes men in one end and spits soldiers out the other."

I pointed at the map of the world he had tacked up on the wall. "The Free Cities are all rich as the Lannisters, and there's always some kind of war going on. They pour gold into the sellsword companies, the companies pour themselves into the fight. These men aren't farmers, or bakers, or tradesmen. They don't spend their time supervising smallfolk and adjudicating disputes. All they know is war."

"But still... to worry about sellswords..."

"Aye, they're loyal to coin, right enough," I said. "But many of those groups have been together for years, fighting side by side. There's a real sense of brotherhood to go along with the pay. And the sellswords aren't even the worst of it."

I told him about the Unsullied. The horrors of their training. The horror of the show put on by the slaver. My assessment of their abilities. I could see the disgust in his eyes. I could see that he didn't want to believe. I could see that reluctance overwhelmed by his trust in his brother and the relentlessly matter-of-fact nature of my account.

"By the Seven," he said when I'd finished, "that is an abomination."

I nodded. Then I took a long pull on my wine. The silence between us stretched out to the point that I felt compelled to drive through to my conclusion.

"So, at the end of the day, if I was a pissed off Targaryen that wanted my throne back, I would head straight for Astrapor. Pick up eight thousand Unsullied and start making my way west. The logistics would be a bitch and a half, but it can be done. Put out a call for sellswords, promising untold riches paid out of the treasury at King's Landing. The Unsullied will keep the sellswords from getting any bright ideas about seizing the crown for themselves. Sail the whole lot across the narrow sea and start raising hell. You could do an awful lot of damage before we'd even properly raised our banners. Then start feeling out for potentially sympathetic Houses."

Hoster did not like that picture. He did not like that at all. No surprise, really. The Riverlands enjoyed a central position in Westeros and a complete lack of natural defenses, so it had gotten to play the role of Westerosi battlefield often enough to be engraved in the psyche of any Lord Paramount.

"All the reports are that the Targaryens are forted up in Dragonstone."

"Their fleet has had free run of the sea for months, knowing that Robert would eventually raise a fleet of his own and crush them," I said, then shrugged. "I'd wager anything you like that the invasion fleet won't find any Targaryens when it arrives."

What was the point of having foreknowledge if you couldn't use it to make yourself look smart? I might setting the bar a little high for myself in the future, but I'd deal with that problem as it came. It wasn't like I could hoard the information for use later. Hell, I was trying to blow up all of my future knowledge by derailing Robert's marriage, a trade I would consider well worth it.

Hoster looked like he'd just sucked on a sour lemon. He wanted to knock my reasoning, but couldn't find an angle.

"What do you suggest we do about this, then? I find that kings don't like being presented with problems unless a solution is offered at the same time."

"We might not need to trouble the king just yet," I said, leaning forward. "The way I see it we need to do two things. First, we have to keep a closer watch on what's going on out east. Sellswords can be hired more rapidly than we can raise levies, but it still takes time. With forewarning, we could limit the damage caused by any invasion. Second, we need to build our own machine. Take in men, turn them into soldiers. We might not be able to rival the output of an entire continent, but having a hard core of professional troops on call at the right moment could make all the difference."

I spread my hands out wide, splaying out my fingers as I rested them on his desk. This was the moment of truth.

"To that end, I intend to start a sellsword company of my own."

ooOoo


	4. Chapter 4

AN: In reviewing some canon material it seems Hoster and Brynden were more badly estranged than I've been representing them. When Hoster's on his death bed he barely wants to talk to Brynden. My take on this is that under the pressure of war they are able to get over their issues and stick together like family. In that context Hoster values Brynden's contributions as a warrior and as a sounding board who isn't afraid to be frank with him. Once the war is over they gradually fell back into bickering over Brynden's wife deficiency and things grew more acrimonious over time.

ooOoo

The sun was shining on yet another gorgeous summer day as I rode toward the gates of Raventree Hall. There had been an awful lot of beautiful days since my arrival on Westeros. Brynden's memories put Westerosi seasons firmly in the category of: Magic, Ain't Gotta Explain Shit, so I did my best not to worry about it. With my men at arms trailing behind me, birds singing, and not a cloud in the sky, I had been enjoying the medieval Disney experience for most of the day.

You could drop Raventree Hall straight into any spooky theme park and draw rave reviews. The mossy outer walls somehow gave the impression of a haunted castle even without the aid of any morning mists. The timber keep had been built subtly off from normal human scale, not too large to be used but just odd enough to unsettle. And of course there was the star attraction, the dirty great dead weirwood in the gardens. Legend had it that hundreds of ravens land on the thing every evening and roost through the night.

For all that, the people of Raventree Hall were friendly enough. The gate guards knew me on sight and let me through without any fuss. Darla Blackwood even showed up with the welcoming party, appearing at the edge of the courtyard. I dismounted and headed straight in her direction.

"Ser Brynden. What a lovely-"

"I intend to make you my wife."

Here's the thing: she was pretty, she could make conversation, and I was almost certain she wasn't interested in fucking her relatives. In Westeros, that's what I call a catch.

My more pressing concern was that I didn't think Braavos would be very accepting of Brynden's primary hobby, that being to fuck his way through the ladies of high society. Really, I don't think it would go over well anywhere that he wasn't a blood relation to the local ruler. I'd managed to stay chaste on our trip to Essos through my own fear of catching new and exotic STDs and Brynden's engrained distaste at the idea of fucking slaves. If I tried to keep that streak going for the long term, though, I had a feeling that I would eventually snap and go on a Baratheon-esque crawl through Braavosi whorehouses that would live on in legend long after my name was forgotten.

When I first ran across that particular set of instincts and memories, I was shocked. Kind old Uncle Blackfish, professional ladykiller? How could that be? Well, give Brynden credit for being discreet, at least. No grabass around the kids. Catelyn had no idea how many of her nannies had succumbed to the old Blackfish charm. Hoster knew, though. Remember, Brynden came up with the Blackfish title himself. Hoster called him the black goat.

Brynden came of age during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and came back to find himself the Most Interesting Man in the Riverlands. A ruggedly handsome war hero who could be charming when he felt like it, he would have had the ladies lining up even if he weren't the brother of the Lord Protector. As it was, if he were the kind of person inclined to keep notches on his belt, he'd be down to more notch than belt at this point.

You may have noticed that my marriage proposal wasn't particularly romantic. I certainly agreed. That was Brynden's influence at work. His fundamental worldview was that every woman he met socially was sincerely interested in being fucked by the Blackfish. Accordingly, he didn't see any point in dancing around the topic with flowery language. Once he'd taken a woman's measure and decided she was worthy of the full Blackfish experience, he would proposition her directly. More often than not, that would lead directly to the bedroom. Or the sitting room. Or, on one memorable occasion, to his brother's solar.

I hadn't quite fully bought in to Brynden's honey badger approach to seduction, but I figured he was the local expert. And damn if she didn't blush and start playing with her hair. Brynden's instincts were immediately urging me to take her around the side of the castle and not come back until she couldn't walk straight, but I reined myself in.

"Well, I-"

I held up my hand, cutting her off. "You should know: I will not be accepting the land my brother has offered me. I will be travelling to Braavos to establish a sellsword company that I intend to be the finest in the land. In my work I will journey throughout Essos meeting interesting new people and, quite often, killing them. I will provide you with a comfortable home in Braavos, but you will not have the usual life of a noble lady of the Rivelands."

She seemed taken aback by my announcement, as was only reasonable. The life I had described was radically different from what she must have pictured the moment I proposed.

"I need to think on this."

"Aye. This is not a decision to be made rashly, or while you are unduly influenced by a handsome face," I said, grinning. She snorted, and I brought the hand I had been holding out closer, softly caressing her cheek. When she leaned in to my touch I once more had to repress Brynden's urge to immediately go for the gold. "I will return in three months. Be ready with a decision then."

Left unspoken was that I would also be sorting things out with whichever male relative was responsible for arranging her marriage. I didn't anticipate any trouble on that front. While their initial approval of me was based on an anticipation of my receiving a landholding along with a marriage, the simple fact was that the connection to my brother was too valuable to pass up, especially for a girl who stood to inherit no lands of her own. At worst I expected some negotiation over the dowry.

She gave me a nod that I felt more than saw. Dropping my hand to my side, I turned and walked off, leading my entourage out of the keep. I paused for a moment to soak in the summer weather, then mounted up. We had a lot of riding ahead of us.

ooOoo

Petyr Baelish's tower did not look particularly impressive from the sea. Nor did it look particularly impressive once we'd stowed our launch on the shore and approached it on dry land. Nor did it grow any more impressive as we got closer. The thing hunched over the beach like an old man, standing perhaps three stories tall. The flint grey exterior was completely plain, free even of the little architectural touches most builders would put in to show they gave a shit about what they were doing.

If I had grown up in this place I might have been tempted to burn the whole country down and start over myself.

I was still warring with myself while I moved forward to announce my presence. A military unit like the one I was trying to build needed officers. Here in Westeros, that meant nobility. For my purposes, it meant men who had squired with somebody competent, so they knew what the hell they were doing, but men who were also young enough to adapt to a new way of war. Fortunately, the Riverlands didn't lack for second and third sons. I'd managed to pick up a gaggle of them to go along with Walder and Rodrik, all still stashed away on the galley, continuing on to Snakewood for the night while I made this little side trip. There was nowhere nearby to anchor the ship, and I doubted Petyr would appreciate me bringing a big group of strangers around to see him in his current state.

He probably wouldn't be too thrilled to see me, for that matter. Which led to the larger question of why I was here. I had enough officers to be getting on with. I didn't need him for my company, and the one identifying characteristic I remembered of Petyr the fictional character was that he betrayed just about everybody who ever trusted him. Well, that and the creeping on Sansa.

Brynden's memories painted the picture of an entirely different person. A young boy, growing into a man, diligent in his studies and eager to please his elders. He had been accepted into the Tully household almost as if he were a member of the family. He had done a foolish thing in challenging Brandon Stark, but it was a mistake made out of love. Brynden would never have guessed that that one mistake would become the defining moment of the boy's life, twisting him into one of the great villains of the realm. I almost felt like I owed it to him to give him a chance to pull out of the downward spiral before it really got started.

Besides, it would hardly do to come all this way and not talk to the kid. My ship wasn't swinging back around until tomorrow afternoon, anyway. Thus resolved, I gave the door several sharp raps.

It wasn't long before the door creaked open. A withered old man looked us over, studying me intently before glancing at the trio of men at arms behind me.

"I'll tell Lord Baelish you've arrived."

With that, he shut the door once more. I looked back at my men and shrugged before settling in for a wait. It took a while. Much more time than you would expect anybody to need to travel all throughout such a small building. I idly wondered to myself if I'd managed to catch Petyr with his cock in a serving girl. When Petyr finally opened the door, my teasing comment died on my tongue.

He looked bad. No two ways about it. He had lost weight from his already skinny frame. His complexion was sallow, making the bags under his eyes stand out with unusual prominence. His hair was stringy and unkempt, and it looked as though he had rather hastily shaved and dressed upon my arrival. All thoughts of Petyr Baelish, master manipulator, fled my mind at the sight of this wretched figure.

"Oh, it is you. I'd thought Oster's eyes were going," he said. There was none of the clever spark Brynden was used to hearing in his voice. No life at all to speak of. "If you're here to remind me of my foolishness, you may as well do it inside."

With that he turned and ambled away from the door without waiting for a response. I followed him inside only to find that he was already halfway up the stairs built into the circular wall of the tower. It looked like the lower level was the servant's lodgings. I gestured for my men to stay downstairs, momentarily grateful that I had had them bring their own supplies. It looked like hosting even just four men might unduly strain this place's reserves. They nodded to acknowledge my order and I followed Petyr up to the... well, great hall wasn't the right word. It was a hall, at least.

It was dark. The only light came from the arrow slits, giving just enough illumination to move about the room. I could dimly make out torch brackets and candle holders that had been placed throughout the keep, but Petyr had elected to leave them all unlit. He had seated himself in a chair that allowed him to peer out through one of the arrow slits at what little there was to see outside. He barely acknowledged me as I drew closer, clearly lost in thought as he stared out at nothing in particular. He didn't even look over as I dragged a chair across the room, creating a horrible racket as I gave myself a place to sit.

"You look like shit, Petyr."

He started a bit at that. Even a lord of a pissant holding like this one was usually treated with a bit more respect than that. With our history, though, I was hardly going to stand on formality. Besides, what was he going to do-challenge me to a duel?

"What does it matter?" he asked, settling back into apathy, "she's gone, run off with that northern oaf."

For some reason, it wasn't until that moment when the penny dropped and I realized that Petyr had been sitting alone in a dark room mooning over some girl and feeling sorry for himself for going on two years now. He had absolutely nobody available to call him on out on his pity party. That's your problem with feudalism, right there. Well, feudalism and a civil war, really, combining to prevent anybody from outside society from checking in on him.

Now I had to figure out what I was going to do about it. This would require a delicate touch, trying to ease Petyr onto a healthier path without insulting him or permanently damaging his psyche...

That was when I realized that I had acted on Brynden's instincts and thrown my head back in a hearty bout of laughter. The laughter just poured out of me for a long minute before I could rein it in. When I did, I saw Petyr glaring at me.

"You make light of my pain, ser?"

There was just the smallest glimmer there of the man who would hold a grudge for twenty years and kill with a smile. Just a bit. But honestly, mostly it was a lovesick teenager trying to give a threatening look that bounced right off of the Blackfish's thick skin.

"You were always a clever lad, Petyr. It would take somebody as clever as you to get yourself all tied up in knots like this. This isn't about Cat."

"Of course it's about her! I love her!" Petyr stood, his fists clenching as though he didn't know what to do with him. "True love! It was supposed to be like the stories..."

Mother save me, he was about to cry. That, or take a swing at me. Maybe both.

The thing was, Brynden knew Catelyn. She was family, but he could look at her objectively and see that she was pretty. A man in love might reasonably think her beautiful. She was pleasant enough company. But she was nothing like a soul-searing, heart-stealing avatar of beauty that could ruin lives and topple empires. Petyr's reaction was wildly out of proportion. I spared a moment to be thankful that however crappy this world might be, it did not yet have access to emo music.

"The stories... you thought yourself a storybook knight, winning the day thanks to the purity of your heart. And now you know that you aren't that hero, so you"-turn yourself into the villain, but let's not give him ideas-"throw yourself into this tower. Or off this tower?"

He flinched. All of my instincts from Brynden were just completely dumbfounded at the idea of somebody killing themselves because of losing out on Catelyn, but I powered through it.

"Because if the world isn't perfect, it's not worth living in? Damn it, Petyr, I thought you were smarter than that."

He had recovered and was back to glaring daggers at me. "You don't know the first thing about my suffering."

He actually had a point there. Brynden Tully had lived a ridiculously charmed life. His greatest regret harked back to the evening when he had been able to arrange a romantic tryst with two separate women, but each had only been available at the same hour of the night. In the end, he had only been able to fuck one of them. Brynden still had wistful thoughts on quiet nights about Missy, the one who got away. He also had to deal with the irritation of his brother trying to marry him off. Neither one of those seemed likely to engender much sympathy from the angsty teenager in front of me.

"Those stories, the ones about the brave knights that win the beautiful maiden... they have some truth to them. But they never give you the whole picture," I said, gesturing at the arrow slit. "You're looking through a glass, darkly, at bits and pieces of somebody else's life. The bits and pieces they want to tell you about. For all you know, that knight got his arse kicked twenty times before he finally carried the day and got the girl."

"What's your point?"

At least a bit of curiosity seemed to be peeking out now, not quite buried by the deluge of self-pity.

"My point is that you don't know what the important parts of your story will be until its over. The meaning of everything that's happened so far can change-will change-depending on what happens in the future," I said. The final conclusion was obvious: this shit with Cat might not seem like a big deal in twenty years. If I said that outright, though, he would definitely start pissing and moaning again, which meant it was better to end with some fortune cookie wisdom. "We define ourselves every day."

Having something to think about that wasn't Catelyn seemed to break Petyr out of his shell a bit. I could see the change come over him as he started to reengage with the outside world. When he looked at me again some of the fever brightness had left his eyes, replaced with the sharp inquiry that I remembered so well from his childhood.

"What are you doing here, anyway? It's an awful long trip just to give an inspiring speech to a disgraced ward."

"Believe it or not, I was worried about you. The war just had me too busy to do anything about it," I said. "But you're right. I do have a bit of an ulterior motive."

I paused, purely for dramatic tension. Petyr looked away, affecting not to care, but I'd seen that expression too many times in his childhood-usually right before he snatched the last sweet from the kitchen and ran off-for me to be fooled now.

"Speaking of life as a story... I thought I'd give you the chance to make a big change in the direction of yours."

ooOoo


	5. Chapter 5

AN: For the purposes of this work a silver stag is 20 pennies and a golden dragon is 12 stags. This is not the conversion factor that Martin uses. However, Martin routinely prices items as though the penny, stag, and dragon correspond to each other in the same way as the medieval penny, shilling, and pound. His stated conversion factors would make a dragon equal to over 40 pounds in pennies. For the most part I'll try to avoid getting bogged down in the numbers but I did want to have this clearly stated.

ooOoo

Working with the Iron Bank was an interesting experience. It turned out that Braavos had its own version of the Glass Steagall Act. The Iron Bank was allowed to lend but was prohibited from making equity investments. That could have been a problem, as I did not really need a loan and I wanted them to have a stake in my success. Fortunately, this was a problem that the Iron Bank had dealt with before.

They handed me a big pile of money, enough that together with the rest of my savings I could equip a thousand men and keep them paid for almost two years even without lining up any clients. In exchange, they were entitled to an "interest payment" equal to ten percent of my gross earnings for the first three years and five percent thereafter. The principal wouldn't come due for a hundred years, although I had the option to pay it off in full should I choose to do so.

There were a few other bells and whistles intended to ensure that I didn't just run off with the money-the most effective of which being the strong implication that doing so would cause me to come down with a bad case of death-but that was the gist of it. The Iron Bank had effectively taken a minority position in my company, although of course I could never describe it like that in public.

I would also never use the word "corruption" in public, but my dealings in Braavos were remarkably smooth once the Iron Bank was interested in my success. For example, a large stretch of the Braavosi coast was owned by a prominent citizen who used the land to raise sheep. Not only did the Iron Bank identify him for me, but once they put us in touch he proved remarkably amenable to a long term lease for use of the land as a military base with an easement granting access to the coast.

Of course, that could have been due to the skill of the employees at the Iron Bank rather than corruption. The reason the land wasn't being used for anything more valuable than sheep herding was the unfortunate frequency of bandit-or "bandit"-raids launched from land nominally controlled by Pentos. Having a sellsword company headquartered in the area would no doubt cut down on that kind of nonsense.

The bank was also quite helpful in identifying smiths, provisioners, and other suppliers of all the various and sundry equipment an army needs. Eventually I'd like to bring a lot of that work in house but for the moment I was happy to trade gold for expertise. I had Petyr, Rodrik, and Walder shadow me as I made the initial supply arrangements. It would serve them well to understand that side of military matters. I also harbored the hope that one of them would show an aptitude for that sort of thing so I could dump it off on them. Delegate. So I could delegate the work to them.

Once we'd secured the loan from the Iron Bank I had turned the other nine young noblemen loose on Braavos with their first month's pay in their pockets and two firm instructions: (1) don't kill anybody, and (2) sober up and be at the designated meeting point in a week. I figured that young men with money to burn near a city like Braavos would run wild sooner or later. It was just more efficient to let them get it out of their system while I handled the initial set-up work.

I was pleasantly surprised when they all showed up at the right dock at dawn on the right day. I had tapped into Brynden's memories to try and recruit reliable lieutenants, but you never knew how people would turn out until they were tested. These young men had just passed their first test. Perhaps not with flying colors-about half of them were obviously nursing hangovers-but they had passed.

They were quiet as we boarded the ship, quiet as we set off, and quiet as we sailed down the coast. They seemed to have recovered by the end of the first day in our week long journey. I made a habit of sharing dinner with them each day, but otherwise tried to give them some space. Brynden knew well that it was best to let a group of martially minded young men sort out most of the interpersonal issues themselves. I would do more harm than good by looming over them, and resolved to intervene only if I saw things getting out of hand. As it happened, they seemed to get along well enough and we were in good order by the time we disembarked at our destination: a rather unremarkable stretch of shoreline. They followed along behind me as I led them along a dirt track through the hills. Eventually the hill valleys opened up to reveal a plain that stretched off to the horizon.

Something about standing on that plain, surrounded by those hills... it felt right. We were actually standing at the northern edge of the plain of Andalos. Brynden had been raised in the faith of the Seven, just like the rest of his family. He had never been particularly devout but in the stillness of the moment, standing among the hills where the Seven themselves had appeared before men to dispense their wisdom... well, I was definitely feeling something. I shook myself, breaking the silence, and focused on more pertinent matters. Namely, the large tent that dominated the nearby campsite visible on the open plains. My small entourage of men at arms had done well getting the place set up.

I led the group over to the camp site, turning to face them with the tent at my back. Instead of addressing them myself, I gestured for Rodrik Lolliston to step forward.

"Rodrik, tell them about our trip to Astapor."

They'd probably heard stories about the Unsullied. Running wild for a week in Braavos, they'd probably heard about worse. Even so, hearing Rodrik lay out the tale in a matter of fact fashion was more sobering than the most horrific ghost story. He explained the rumors that we'd heard. The long journey to the dusty city of Astapor. The foundations of the city, built on slavery. And the Unsullied.

Their inhuman training. Their unquestioning obedience. Their unflinching discipline. And, finally, their impressive battlefield coordination.

I stepped forward once he finished his story. "That is what we must be prepared to fight. Any time we take a contract, we could end up facing the Unsullied. We have to beat them."

I paused and looked around, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "More than that: we will learn to beat them. We will learn, so that if some fucker ever lands a band of Unsullied at Saltpans, we'll cut them to fucking pieces!"

That got a rousing cheer, which caught me by surprise. I guess hearing about the Unsullied the first time will angry up anybody's blood. I did my best to act like I'd been expecting it and continued.

"If any of you paid attention to your history lessons you probably noticed that the Unsullied are modeled on the Ghiscari legions. Ghis conquered just about everybody they came across until the Dragonlords of Valyria scoured them off the earth," I said. "But some of the old stories tell of a tribe that gave them trouble. A group of men that fought as a unit with long two-handed spears. The Ghiscari never could defeat them on level footing, though they eventually managed to drown them in bodies."

It was true enough that I was recounting a successful tactic I dimly recalled reading about in an old book. The fact that I was actually recounting my memory of the success of Swiss pikemen on the medieval battlefield was, I felt, beside the point. There remained the issue that I didn't really know the nitty gritty details of how the Swiss pike block had worked, but that's why I had tried to gather up some bright lads to work under me.

With that in mind I gestured, and my men pulled open the flaps of the tent behind me. Inside a miniature armory sat on long tables, glittering in the sun. There were several different varieties of armor featured, from simple chain shirts to nearly full coverings of plate armor. Spears were present in abundance, all massive but made of different types of wood and slightly varying in length.

"Unfortunately, ancient tales are no substitute for practical experience. We are going to take the time we need to figure out how we're going to put this army together. We will decide how the men will be armored. We will decide how they will be armed. We will decide how they will be drilled," I said, rising to a crescendo, "By the time our men get here we will be able to look them in the eye and tell them with the utmost confidence that if they follow our instructions they will become part of the deadliest fucking army on the planet!

"They won't be signing on with just any sellsword outfit. They'll be joining the Sunset Legion."

The Iron Bank hadn't gone for the naming rights.

ooOoo

The following days were a learning experience for us all. I'm sure we provided great entertainment for the men at arms who got to watch a bunch of noble born men figuring out how to march in formation without tripping all over each other or each other's spears. The men did at least refrain from laughing at us out loud, which I appreciated. It wasn't that we didn't know how to use the weapons. All men of noble birth in Westeros knew at least the basics of killing with any weapon that came to hand. The problem came with trying to use a twenty foot long spear together with other men doing the same right behind you, ahead of you, and next to you.

The moment when I knew this was going to work was when we finally sorted out how to march forward with five people in a line, one behind the other, spears held in line ready to attack, just sliding by to the side of the men in front and putting each spearhead in front of the frontmost man. Once we'd managed to march the length of the camp without stabbing ourselves, I had the line freeze in place while I gathered up the rest of the men and moved to stand in front of the column of spearmen.

It was a sobering thing, looking at their spears head on. In actual combat, I'd be faced with five different men trying to stab me to death at the same time.

"How'd you like to be staring that down with your sword and shield in hand?" I asked.

Rodrik and Petyr were standing at my side and both seemed struck by the question. Rodrik was the first to speak.

"I would not like it at all."

Petyr added his two pennies a moment later. "I believe this is a group best approached from the side."

"In small groups, the long spear will be unwieldy," I said, "but just imagine columns of men like this standing side by side across the whole width of the battlefield."

It was a beautiful picture in my mind's eye, but there was a lot of work to be done before we got there.

We also used the time to settle some ancillary issues. I wanted my troops to be fairly mobile, able to cover ground quickly when they had to in order to close with the enemy. I also wanted to be able to march long distances with as little by way of a wagon train as possible. On the other hand, they did need some protection for the battlefield. I had brought a variety of armor choices out with me so that we could try them for ourselves. I felt that a full morning of walking out and a full afternoon of walking back was a fair test, finished off with a bit of quick marching and running. We rotated through all of the armor over a few days of tests.

One happy side effect of that exercise was that it knocked the rust off of anybody who had gotten a little too fat and happy during their week Braavos. Petyr, in particular, seemed to benefit from exerting himself under the summer sun. He hadn't quite regained what Brynden remembered as his healthy peak back at Riverrun, but he was no longer visibly unhealthy when put in line with the rest of the men. I did still catch him staring off into the distance and brooding from time to time. Whenever I did, I would make him run a couple of wind sprints. If he had time to brood, he had time to sweat.

We finally settled on a cuirass with pauldrons coupled with an open faced helmet as offering a reasonable level of protection together with a bearable level of encumbrance. The twenty foot long spear was also a unanimous choice. It was solidly longer than any one-handed spear, and the longer spears quickly grew too difficult to maneuver. It was something I might revisit once I had veteran troops under my command, but to start with I wanted to set achievable goals.

I also had some of my men raid a Braavosi music store in the hopes of finding something that would be useful for battlefield communications. The prize of that effort was a massive kettledrum, almost too big to properly carry. If there's a simpler, purer pleasure than pounding on a drum and watching men march to the beat, I don't know what it is. Some of the woodwinds and brass instruments looked interesting, but unfortunately none of us could play them for shit.

After two weeks I felt confident that we could train up raw recruits without embarrassing ourselves. I also felt like my chosen lieutenants were starting to believe in what we were doing, which was almost as important. We gathered at camp. I made everybody recite back the terms of recruitment to me individually from memory, in the perhaps vain hope of preventing future cock-ups: recruits were signing on for a five year term at six pennies a day, pay commencing upon their arrival in Essos with one stag paid in advance; they would be provided with arms and armor at the company's expense, and would also be entitled to a bonus as the company earned money from successfully completed contracts.

Each of us, including myself, was responsible for raising 100 men from the Riverlands. I expected we would each focus our efforts within our local regions, and I didn't expect any trouble making the numbers. We'd hardly be putting a dent in the number of men of fighting age living in the Riverlands. Recruitment efforts were to be limited to boys from 16 to 18 years old, with younger preferred to older and larger preferred to smaller. I figured the younger men would have an easier time taking to a new way of fighting.

Petyr was let off of recruiting duties for the obvious reasons. That didn't mean that he would be idle. I tasked him with establishing the layout of what was to be our training camp. The new recruits would do the work of putting it together, but everything would proceed more smoothly if there was a plan in place to begin with. I also charged Petyr with the responsibility for buying a manor house in Braavos proper. I wanted one that could be sectioned off into a public area with a clubhouse and bunk room for off duty troops and a private area suitable for the residence of a noble lady.

After all, if everything went well I'd be returning with 100 recruits and a new wife.

I left Petyr enough money to pay for what he needed to do and a bit more besides. It was a healthy sum for a man considering, say, running off to Qarth and starting a new life, but it wasn't so much that its loss would cripple me. I hoped Petyr had turned away from what I knew as his canon self, but if he was going to betray me I'd rather he get it over with sooner than later.

Setting sail back to Westeros, I could feel the weight of the moment settling on my shoulders. Right now, the Sunset Legion was nothing but dreams and promises. When I returned, it would be a real thing, a thousand men taking the first steps towards becoming a cohesive unit. In time, who knew what it could become?

ooOoo


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Regarding camp layout: this is boot camp in the middle of nowhere, which means that the precise location is not just influenced by maximum defensibility. An army on the march through hostile terrain would obviously make different decisions.

ooOoo

Darla Blackwood decided that moving to Essos was an acceptable price to pay to become the wife of the Blackfish. Her father didn't even knock too much off her dowry. I was tempted to elope just to move things along quickly, but I owed it to my brother to make my wedding an event. For a Lord Paramount, every opportunity to network with his vassals-especially in a positive environment-was priceless. Besides, the thirty days it took for everybody to arrive gave me plenty of time to recruit my hundred men.

The celebrations leading up to the wedding proved a test of my patience. There are only so many variations on the "somebody finally hooked the Blackfish" joke, and I heard them all. Over and over and over again. One of the downsides of being everybody's cool uncle, I suppose. I was able to get through it, though I imagine my grin was a bit strained by the morning of the wedding.

The wedding ceremony itself was mercifully short. Darla was the very picture of ethereal beauty in her wedding dress. And the bedding... well.

Part of me was a little embarrassed that I had found one more area where I was learning by letting Brynden's instincts take over. The rest of me decided just to relax and enjoy the ride. One thing I will say before pulling the veil of propriety over the rest of the night: I don't know if it's a general fact of life, a quirk of Westerosi society, or just a matter of being the Blackfish, but it's amazing the kind of things that will happen if you demand them with a confident tone of voice.

ooOoo

I arranged matters so that my group of recruits was the first to arrive at our camp. I had also managed things so that I traveled on ahead of my recruits. I settled my wife into her new home and made my way down to the camp to await their arrival.

At the moment, it looked more like a construction site than a military base. Petyr had had ropes and stakes used to mark out the location of future buildings and fortifications. The site he had chosen was in the last valley before the tree-covered hills gave way to the flat ground of the plains of Andalos. From what I could tell he had done a good job laying things out, although I intended to go over it again before we started putting up buildings.

There was one structure already in place. A post, about the height of a man, had been firmly driven into the ground. A plank had been nailed to the top of the post and a large bell hung down from the plank. I stood next to it and watched as the recruits filed up to stand before me, chivvied along by my men. I swept over them with my gaze, taking in their appearance as I waited for them to settle down. They seemed to be in reasonably high spirits, looking forward to setting out on an adventure with the famous Blackfish.

"I told you when I recruited you that this will be best fighting company in the world. That means that each of you will have to be the best that you can be. I didn't bring you here to be pretty good. I didn't ask you to join because I thought you were adequate. You're here because I think you can be great."

That got a vigorous cheer. I let them go on for a moment before I waved them into silence.

"Over the next month we'll find out if I was right. Your training will be brutal. This is by design, to bring out the best in each of you and to separate the men who can make it in our legion from those who can't. There will be days when you wish you had never been born. There will be days that you wish I had never been born."

I paused as a wave of nervous laughter swept through the crowd.

"If you ever decide that it's too much. If you can't keep up. If you just don't want to do it any more, for any reason. All you have to do is ring this bell," I said, reaching up and giving the pull cord a forceful tug. The clanging of the bell echoed off the surrounding hills. "You'll be given the pay you've earned. You'll be given a ride to the camp down by the coast. You'll be given free passage on a ship back to the Saltpans, and coin to see you back to your home. Nobody will ever breathe a word of criticism in your direction."

No, I'd leave that to each individual conscience. Any Westerosi, even those not born into the nobility, felt loss of face with an acuity that I had trouble wrapping my mind around even with the aid of Brynden's memories. A choice that smacked of cowardice was no choice at all. It was almost cruel deploying a psychological trap like this, but I needed them to buy in to the training. And what better way to do that but to convince them that every grueling moment of it was a result of their own personal decision?

"Tonight we camp outside. Rest well and recover your strength. You're going to need it."

Transforming living trees into usable lumber with hand tools is hard work. It's dirty, repetitive, tiring labor. Really, just the thing to keep young men occupied. It was fortunate that most smallfolk had at least some experience with that kind of thing.

I led the recruits on a brisk after-breakfast run up and down each of the hills adjoining the camp, just to prove that I could. Then I stalked manfully into my command tent before collapsing once I was safely out of sight. How did that song go? Brynden might not be as good as he once was, but he was as good once as he ever was. Once. The second hill had been pride overruling good sense.

Once I had my breathing back under control I headed out to where the men had started their assault on the surrounding forest. I picked out the ten least-busy looking recruits and had them accompany me for processing. I also pulled one of my men off of tree cutting supervision so that I wouldn't have to fetch the next group myself. That still left five of my men to keep things organized and watch out for slackers.

Sitting on the writing desk in my command tent was my pride and joy. I am not a particularly mechanically clever person. I don't have any detailed knowledge of chemistry. However, I could describe the workings of a simple machine clearly enough, and I had worked with an artificer in Braavos to introduce a pair of new inventions to this world: the three hole punch and three ring binder. Braavos had a thriving paper industry but had had no pressing need for loose leaf paper until I showed up.

I knew it was going to drive me crazy not having all of the relevant data about my company in a searchable electronic database. Keeping meticulous paper records was the closest equivalent I could get. I had employed a pair of scribes and small team of assistants for the duration of the new recruit intake process. Each individual recruit had his height and weight measured, along with his neck, chest, waist, and inseam. This was all recorded on a standardized form along with his name, eye and hair color, date of birth, home town, and date of arrival at camp.

I felt an almost physical sense of accomplishment as each form was hole-punched and placed in the binder. I did sigh in satisfaction as the last member of the first group left the tent. I started a bit when I realized the scribes were looking at me curiously.

"Start working on a list with the measurements for the armorer," I said, issuing orders to cover up my embarrassment. "And make sure the binder is organized alphabetically by name."

The processing continued in fits and starts throughout the day, but we had all one hundred men in the books by dinner time. After dinner I toured the camp with Petyr. The sun was low in the sky, but it gave off enough light to see the fruit of the day's labors: a pile of logs. Well, they say journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Actually, I'm not sure if anybody said that here. Maybe I could write a whole book of trite sayings that nobody here had ever heard of. Brynden the Wise has a nice ring to it.

Reluctantly, I realized that I was procrastinating and forced my attention back to the present. This conversation might not be pleasant, but it was necessary.

"You've done well while I was away, Petyr," I said. "Your plans for the camp buildings and fortifications are sound, and the manor is exactly what I had in mind."

It was the simple truth. The house was of a decent size, located in a neighborhood that was nice enough to please my wife but not so nice that the neighbors would look askance at off-duty soldiers walking around.

As for the camp layout, well. I had been eagerly anticipating the chance to use my future knowledge of sanitation to help create a revolutionary new way of doing things... then I had flipped over the written plans I was given and seen the maester's carefully written notes explaining the extensive measures being taken to dispose of waste and avoid contaminating the local water supply. A modern plumber or architect might have been able to do better, but I certainly couldn't.

"Thank you, ser."

Petyr was doing his best to hide it, but old uncle Blackfish could see the preening taking place just beneath the surface. I looked around casually, making sure nobody else was in earshot.

"How much did the manor house end up costing me?"

He looked at me, a bit startled but not alarmed. It was a fairly routine question, after all.

"Fifty two dragons twelve."

I had to resist the urge to smile. Look at that, he was already avoiding round numbers. "And how much of that found its way into your pocket?"

He went rigid at that. I could see him immediately reject the idea of attacking me as his eyes darted back and forth, mapping out paths of escape. I held up both hands, palm open.

"Relax, you aren't in trouble," I said, giving him a friendly smile. "Just tell the truth, now."

He looked down at the ground. "Five dragons."

This was a delicate moment. My own knowledge greatly exceeded Brynden's regarding the many and varied forms of human corruption in business endeavors. Petyr was, at the moment, a somewhat naive teenager. However, I had a sneaking suspicion that Petyr had a natural talent for this sort of thing that dwarfed my own. There was also the very real chance that he was just plain smarter than me, though less experienced. It felt like teaching a young Mike Tyson to throw a punch. He might not know much about what he was doing right now, but if I wasn't careful things could quickly spiral out of my control.

"That's all?" I asked. "I didn't think the Braavosi were so cheap."

"I was offered ten," he admitted, "but the neighborhood was shit."

And so he turned it down instead of getting greedy and increasing the chance of getting caught. Like I said, natural talent.

"Good. Whatever happens, remember this: I can forgive many things, but I cannot forgive actions that harm the company."

"Whatever... what's going to happen?" Petyr asked.

"Well, if you want to give me the five dragons back and keep your nose clean in the future, it will be as if this never happened," I said. "On the other hand, right now we have a merchant that thinks you're on the take... I'm sure a clever lad like yourself can think of a way to turn that to our advantage."

ooOoo


	7. Chapter 7

ooOoo

The silence of the next early morning was broken by the jaunty-and loud-sound of the local bugle-equivalent. I'd found a guy in Braavos and paid him to come up with a wake-up tune. I'd eventually want to train up musicians from within the legion, but for now I didn't mind hiring an outside expert.

The noise was enough to wake up most of the recruits. My men and I went through the camp kicking awake the stragglers. When everybody was awake and more or less alert I got up front to address the troops.

"Good morning! I don't have the time to shake you awake every morning, and it's a real pain in my arse to track you all down when you're scattered all over the hills," I said. "That's why you'll need to listen for our musical friend here. What you just heard was your wake up song. There's another one that means it's time to get to work, one that means it's time to eat, and one that means it's time to go to bed."

They were staring at me rather blankly. It was pretty early in the morning.

"You'll figure it out. For now, breakfast's ready."

Just one day of training and they were already developing a soldier's appreciation for a meal, judging by the stampede towards the camp kitchen. I suppose all of that back-breaking labor they were doing was having an effect.

That morning we began drilling them on marching in step. It was a sad effort. They weren't carrying any weapons, so it was more comedy than tragedy, but it did prompt a feeling of gratitude that I would have six months to train them up before leading them into battle.

The afternoon was spent playing lumberjack, and we finished off the evening with a couple of hill runs just for fun. And so it went. Day by day, they moved better in unison, and day by day they seemed better equipped to handle the physical load we were putting on them. Nobody saw fit to ring the bell and leave.

On the seventh day word arrived that the next group of recruits was putting in to shore. I gathered the first hundred for one last bit of theater. They stood before me in a square, ten by ten. Their relatively crisp appearance was a welcome change from the loose mob that had gathered the last time I addressed them.

I had brought a prop with me this time: a bundle of ten wrist thick sticks bound tightly together. I handed it to the rightmost man on the front row.

"Break this for me, please."

He was a big strong lad, and he actually managed to get the bundle to flex a bit as he bore down on it, but it was in no danger of breaking. The next man couldn't even get it to bend. I moved right down the line, and none of the ten had any luck.

Then I took cut open the bundle. I handed one stick to each of the ten men and took a step back.

"Now, break those."

There was a series of cracks as they each broke their stick, their faces showing various degrees of effort. I cast my gaze over the formation, making sure that everybody was paying attention.

"When you fight for yourself, by yourself, you are the single stick, easy for the enemy to break one by one," I said. "When you fight together as a unit you are the unbreakable bundle. That is what we are teaching you. You're not there yet, but you're getting there."

I paused. It was hard to tell if they were taking my words to heart or if they were just silently humoring an old man who liked to talk. Well, at least I tried. I gestured to Petyr, and he stepped up to stand beside me.

"There's a new group arriving today that will require my attention. The rest of your training will be under the leadership of Lord Baelish," I said. "Don't expect him to go as easy on you as I have."

That got some laughter, though it was a bit nervous, which was what I was aiming for. I nodded to Petyr and took my leave.

It's perhaps worth mentioning at this point the Westerosi approach to command authority. They didn't really have military ranks as such. Or, I suppose it's more accurate to say that they did not have military ranks that were separate from the civilian hierarchy. The guy who bossed you around on the battlefield was also the guy who bossed you around in day to day life. The King commanded the Lords Paramount, they commanded their vassals, and everybody commanded the knights and smallfolk that worked directly under them. The system could kind of sort of shake out to resemble a modern chain of command, but it turned into an unholy administrative snarl as soon as multiple vassal chains were involved in the same army. I was hoping to introduce a sensible command hierarchy, but I knew it would take time.

All of which is to say that I wasn't particularly worried about Petyr's ability to control the recruits. The "Lord" in front of his name went a long, long way. It didn't matter that his command presence was mediocre at best. It didn't matter that he was lord of a shitty little holding. It didn't matter that he was a target of ridicule in the aristocratic rumor mill. The recruits were new to the military life, but they were not at all new to the idea that the landed nobility got to tell them what to do.

It was still possible that he could cock it up, but I thought it unlikely. He'd been shadowing me for a week and nobody ever thought he was stupid.

The other groups of a hundred would each be commanded by the man who had recruited them. I would help out fairly heavily at first and then take a lighter and lighter touch as time went by.

The days flew by in a blur of new troop orientation and administrative tasks. The second hundred had arrived a week after the first, and the third arrived a week after the second. Although their staggered arrival had been an accident, it had some helpful consequences. The newly arriving recruits now had more experienced men to compare themselves to. This naturally spurred them to try to measure up, to try to produce as much lumber, to run as far and as fast. The experienced troops took this as a challenge and worked hard to maintain their edge.

As long as the competitive spirit didn't boil over into violence I was all for it. It seems to be human nature that we do our best when we're trying to beat somebody else.

The end of the first month saw a major milestone. In addition to three hundred more recruits, we took delivery of the first one hundred sets of armor to go with our massive stockpile of spear shafts. I had Petyr give his men a congratulatory speech before distributing the equipment. They deserved it. They were able to march together in formation, halt on command, and turn crisply as a unit on command. They could also keep going more or less indefinitely. It doesn't sound like much, but that unity was going to be the foundation for our entire style of combat.

Now we'd be adding arms and armor to the equation. The spears were weighted just like the real thing, but blunted in the hopes of averting training accidents. The armor-a cuirass, combination breast plate and back plate, with matching helmet-looked good on them. The recruits looked like kids on Christmas morning as they tried it on. I suspected they'd be less fond of it when they realized we intended to make them run up and down hills with the armor on. Well, it would build character.

Marching with spears was an adventure. We made sure to ease into things. First it was marching while carrying the spears straight up and down, braced on their shoulders. Then it was marching with the spear held diagonally forward, not in attacking position but ready to drop into place. Then the first rank had their spears level, ready to attack. Then the second, and so on. The need for coordination in maneuvering grew more acute with each progression.

The other thing that we drilled relentlessly was bracing for a charge. The basic concept is simple: the outer ring of men brace their spears on the ground, pointed outward from the formation and ready to impale anybody-or, more to the point, any horse-that comes charging straight at the formation. The next ring in stands ready to stab anybody who manages to navigate the outer ring. The tricky part was getting them to the point where they could go from charging forward to bracing for impact as quickly and smoothly as possible.

Of course, all of this facility with the spear was something that would develop over time. We welcomed three hundred more men on the fifth week since training began. The last three hundred arrived the following week, along with a pair of letters.

The first letter was an invitation to the royal wedding. In six weeks Robert Baratheon was to be wed to Cersei Lannister. My efforts to derail their betrothal had been too little, too late. I could only hope that this was because Jon Arryn didn't really give a fuck what I think about things, rather than some kind of mystical bullshit that makes Joffrey's existence inevitable.

It was a pain in the arse to leave in the middle of training, but I thought we'd be ok. We had enough recruits who were starting to look like they knew what they were doing that the new kids should just model themselves after the old. Also, from a purely pecuniary point of view, the company treasury was on deposit with the Iron Bank, who paid our suppliers directly. So even if we did have some recruits with less than pure hearts, they didn't really have any option in terms of getting paid other than doing what they were told. The camp should be able to run fine for a month or two without me.

It would have to. It wasn't like I could snub the king, after all.

The second letter was a more pleasant sort of surprise, and led me to seek out Walder Frey. He and his group of recruits had arrived two weeks ago. They had been progressing well, though Walder hadn't really done anything to draw attention to himself, good or bad. That was his way. Where Rodrik had an easy personal magnetism and Petyr had a certain intense intelligence to him, Walder was just kind of... there. He offered sensible advice when asked, and otherwise kept his mouth shut.

The second letter made me look at those qualities in a whole new light. Once we were both secluded in the tent I handed it over to him and gave him time to look it over.

See, it had occurred to me back in Astapor that it would sure be nice to know if somebody bought a large mass of Unsullied. I was prepared to offer a significant bribe to suborn one of the slaver's employees when Walder suggested a different plan. The sales, after all, took place in public. Walder worked with Agnolo, our Braavosi guide, and arranged for several of the local beggars to watch the public square and count the Unsullied being sold. He then found a man to take their reports and pay them a copper or two per week. He then arranged for a sailor to take that man's written records in exchange for a handful of silver stags. The sailor was to deliver the letter to our man in Braavos, who sent it on to me. I didn't really follow how he intended to keep the sailor in line.

I'd been a bit skeptical of the plan at the time, but I figured it was worth a shot. And now here we were, months later, with a written list of major sales of Unsullied. The information was a little dated, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing. Thankfully, none of the recent sales seemed destined to travel anywhere near us.

"I'm impressed that this worked," I said, "thought it does make me wonder where you learned how to set up something like this."

Walder looked uncomfortable with the praise. "My family can be... competitive."

"It occurs to me," I said, "that it would be quite useful to gather similar information from other cities."

"I suppose," he said.

"For example, I've been invited to King's Landing for the royal wedding."

His face paled at that, which just showed good judgment. I smiled.

"Relax, I don't want to ferret out anybody's secrets. I don't care who's fucking who, and I don't want to know anything worth killing over. I just want to know what everybody living in King's Landing knows. It's not like I can hear the local rumors when I'm out here at the camp."

"That," he said, chewing his lip, "that should be possible."

"Good man," I said. "You can travel with me as my aide. You should have ample opportunity to slip into the city and do your thing."

"My thing?" he said, then caught himself and squared his shoulders. "Yes, my thing."

"Just let me know how much coin you need."

The next morning, I gathered the recruits on the parade ground. They were really starting to learn how to form up into respectable squares. The earliest recruits looked particularly snazzy in their new armor. I hated to leave them just as they were really coming together, but I had to go. I gave them a brief speech explaining why I would be leaving them for a while, making Rodrik the captain in my absence, and sternly warning them that he wouldn't go as easy on them as I had been.

Yes, I'd used that joke before. What can I say, rank hath its privileges.

The first stop for Walder and I was back in Braavos. While he went to the Iron Bank to make a withdrawal, I headed to the house that would someday be known as the headquarters of the Sunset Legion. Right now, the only occupant was my wife.

I entered our private apartment in the manor to find Darla dressed to impress. The bright colors of the latest Braavosi fashions created a dramatic contrast with her porcelain skin, and she'd done something with her hair that was really working for me. I was a bit surprised to see that she had adapted so quickly and thoroughly to her new environment. She smiled when she saw me and came over to give me a quick peck on the lips.

"I'm so glad you're here. Onesta Golatas is throwing a dinner party tonight that's been the talk of the town. If we hurry we can have you changed and get there in time for drinks."

I grabbed her around the waist and yanked her forward, leaning in to kiss her, hard. I felt her jolt in surprise, then relax and melt against me. I continued until I felt she had been thoroughly kissed before pulling away.

"We're not going to make it to the party."

...

Darla liked to talk, afterwards.

"I remember that I used to sit in Ravenhall all day and dream of going to just one big social event, and now here I am worried about missing the fifth one this week. Isn't that silly?"

I grunted.

"Oh, I just know Onesta is going to be disappointed with me, though, just not showing up."

"Blame the king."

"I thought you were the captain of your company," she said, turning to give me a sly smile. "Or did you get a promotion?"

In response, I pried myself out of bed and looked for my jacket. I found it on the floor halfway between the door and bed and fished the invitation from my pocket. I handed it to my wife and stepped back to watch the show. She made a noise not unlike a boiling teakettle when she realized what she was reading. I grinned. I had never seen her really lose her composure before.

"We're going to the royal wedding!" she said, then gave me a sharp look. "You couldn't have mentioned this before?"

I shrugged.

"You beast," she said, reaching out and mock shoving my chest.

I grabbed her hand tugged her close, then let Brynden's instincts take over.

ooOoo


	8. Chapter 8

ooOoo

King's Landing was pretty much as advertised. Keep in mind, Brynden Tully was a forty-two year old man used to living in medieval sanitary conditions. And even to his nose the smell was overpowering. How much so? Our first night at the castle was the first chaste night that Darla and I spent together.

The queasy, greasy feeling of being in King's Landing combined with the energy that I hadn't had a chance to burn off in the usual fashion to leave me miserable and unable to sleep. At the training camp I could stay up and do paperwork until I dropped off or, worst come to worst, go on a jog around camp to take the edge off. Lying in bed in somebody else's castle, it didn't seem like a great idea to go wandering through halls full of important guests and their armed retinues. I'd left all of my paperwork behind, safe and sound with the legion. That meant that I didn't have anything to do but brood.

Something about being in King's Landing made all those horrible stories I remembered reading about feel more real. I could feel the weight of the stone all around me, pressing down on me and grinding forward towards the inevitable future. Was I really accomplishing anything? I certainly hadn't changed the trajectory of Robert and Cersei's life. She was still a train towing ten boxcars full of burning tires, and he was still an oil tanker anchored beneath a washed out bridge. The only real change I had made was to my personal situation. I remembered that Brynden had been planning to help Lysa get settled in the Vale. How much worse off was that poor girl without her uncle's shoulder to lean on?

Well, that wasn't quite fair. There was Petyr. I couldn't say that he was on the straight and narrow just yet, but at least I had gotten him out of that dreadful tower. He seemed to be handling the responsibility of training up a cohort of recruits quite well, and he was looking much healthier after spending a few months outdoors. I mean, I wouldn't leave him alone in a room with Ned Stark and a weapon, but I thought it was fair to say I had at least made some kind of a positive difference in Petyr's life.

So what if I hadn't saved the country yet? Hells, I never saved the country back home, either. I had a plan that should help me and mine survive the coming shitstorm, and I needed to stick with it. I could try and nudge the country away from the shitstorm, but I had to accept that I could only do so much. Besides the inevitable personal frustration, trying to do to much could quite possibly get me assassinated. Better to keep my head down, get through the wedding, and hurry off to somewhere safer and more pleasant than this pit of vipers. Like a battlefield.

I fell asleep on that happy thought. I wouldn't say my sleep was particularly restful, but I was at least able to drag myself through the next day's events. The royal wedding was preceded by a week of feasting and celebration. I'm not sure if the extensive feasting was tradition or an example of Robert's trademark profligacy. I guess it could also have been a perfectly fiscally responsible attempt to unify the realm. In any event, I was resolved to stick with my plan: be blandly pleasant and don't give anybody a reason to have me killed.

It wasn't until the third day of feasting that we attended a party that actually featured the royal couple. It was a big party, though. As long as I stayed focused on the food and drink and made boring conversation there was no reason that... of course, that's Robert Baratheon heading my way.

"So somebody finally hooked the Blackfish," Robert announced, clapping a friendly hand down on my shoulder that was probably going to leave bruises. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"Hooked, netted, and salted away," I said, looking over to my wife. She was getting along famously with Cersei Lannister, which was a little concerning but also a problem for another day. "It's been more pleasant than I expected, your grace."

Robert threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh.

The thing about Robert Baratheon is, well, it's hard to put into words. When I first saw the man, my immediate thought was: yep, he should be the king. In another world, he would have been the unanimous choice as his fraternity's rush chairman before going on to a successful career in politics. I know some like to focus on his appetites, but it's not like politicians back home were a bunch of chaste and innocent teetotalers.

Robert was a larger than life figure, not just for his size and strength, but also for his sheer vitality. It was a fucking disgrace to think that this force of nature was doomed to be ground down by this crapsack world over the next fifteen years.

"I've heard you're starting a sellsword company."

Holy hells, he sounded wistful. Not tremendously so, but it was definitely there. He'd been king for about a year, he was about to marry the best looking woman in the kingdom, and he was already starting to daydream about wandering the earth like David Carradine with a warhammer. Getting this kind of confirmation that my information about the future was correct and that my efforts weren't making a lick of difference was frustrating and not a little depressing. I did my best not to let any of that show on my face, of course.

"It's all green recruits and paperwork so far, I'm afraid."

Robert heaved a great sigh. "Sometimes I think it's ink and parchment that truly rule the world, not men."

I inclined my head in agreement and raised my glass in salute before knocking back a mouthful of wine.

I could have taken the opportunity to launch into a lecture about the wonders of paperwork. A big part of me wanted to. I mean, how do you even know what you're doing if you don't write it down? Brynden even had a little bit of a rapport with Robert from the days of the rebellion. Brynden had been involved in some of the high level planning meetings during the campaign, and he and Robert had hit it off. Those stories to Hoster about Robert's love of whores and wine? Brynden knew all about them because much of the time he was right there with Robert.

All that said, if Robert wanted good advice there was plenty on offer from Jon Arryn. Hells, Jon had been like a father to Robert and he still had a devil of a time convincing Robert to govern halfway responsibly. I had no chance of getting through to him, so there was no point wasting my breath just to irritate the king.

Robert had matched me in taking a swig from his own goblet. When he finished he leaned in close, much of the levity falling from his expression. "Hoster also tells me tales of an invasion from the east that he says he heard from you."

"Ah, your grace," I said, glancing around the room, "I'd rather not start any rumors."

"You know," Robert announced, "it occurs to me that if you just got here then you haven't had a chance to see the throne room since the sack. Let's go take a look."

Well, when the king commands, there's nothing to do but obey. Robert grabbed Varys on our way out. One of the members of the Kingsguard shadowed us as we walked down the hallways of the Red Keep. I couldn't help but feel discomfort walking next to the Master of Whispers. I only recalled the broad outlines from the books, which largely tracked with Brynden's memories: eunuch, scary smart, surprisingly ruthless. It was more than enough to give me the heebie jeebies. Of course, he picked up on it.

"I hope I have not offended you, ser," he said. "I do so pride myself on being inoffensive."

I thought for a moment about trying some kind of misdirection before abandoning it as a lost cause. "It's nothing to do with you. The last time I saw a eunuch was when some fucker was trying to sell me a pack of Unsullied."

Varys tittered. Father help me, full grown man and all, he tittered. "You have no need to fear on that account, ser. I could never fit into the uniform."

He gestured to his very generous belly. I'll admit, he startled a laugh out of me. It took balls to make that kind of a joke in front of the king. Or not, I guess. I was still pondering the vagaries of eunuch humor when we reached the throne room.

It was quite a room. The first words that jumped to mind were "barbaric splendor." Robert had torn down the dragon skulls that Brynden vaguely remembered lining the walls and replaced them with hunting tapestries. The throne was the same, though. It was a massive thing. Asymmetrical, the swords that made it up had been melted together with no consideration for aesthetics or comfort. This throne was a declaration of power above all.

Robert sat on the iron throne and fixed me with a serious glare. "So the dragonspawn will buy themselves an army."

Terrific, another little tidbit of canon that I'd forgotten. Brynden had known that Robert hated Aerys, of course. It had completely slipped my mind, though, that Robert had transferred that hatred and borderline paranoia to Aerys's last surviving children. Wouldn't it just be fucking wonderful if my efforts to inflame my brother's fears to win his approval and financial support ended up sending Robert off on an invasion of Essos? That's one way to avoid a war: start an even bigger war first!

All right, time to shine. Intrigue, manipulation, political games... those are not my forte. Bullshitting my way out of trouble? That was more my speed.

"I can't tell you what they will do, your grace," I said, gesturing at Varys. "Others are much more suited to that task."

Now he can ask Varys for advice, Varys can tell him that my scaremongering is built on bullshit, and-

"Others told me the Targaryens would be caught on Dragonstone! I'd rather hear from the man who knew they had already fled."

Shit, Hoster, was there anything I said that you didn't relay to the king? In addition to Robert's rather intense attention, Varys was looking at me with a cool expression that could be hiding anything from his joy at watching Robert tear into somebody else to his contemplation of how he was planning to have me killed.

"With respect, your grace, I hardly knew anything that anybody else didn't," I said. "I just felt in my gut that if you were bent on killing me I wouldn't stop running at the first fucking island I came across."

That got a laugh that took some of the tension out of the room, at least. Not much, though. Robert still had his game face on.

"You do have news from your journey east, though."

"Aye," I said, "I don't know what they _will_ do, but what they _could_ do... with money enough and time they could secure 8,000 Unsullied and perhaps three or four times that number of sellswords."

"Fucking Unsullied," Robert said, spitting. "I should raise a host and burn Astapor to the ground!"

He was glaring at Varys as he said it. I had the strong impression that I was coming in on the middle of an ongoing conversation. I couldn't really disagree with the sentiment, though. If somebody came to me with a solid plan for burning the place down, I'd be there with a torch. I suspected it was not a particularly practical dream, though.

I glanced over at Varys and our eyes met. I think he could see that I realized an invasion would be a terrible idea but also that I wasn't going to say a fucking thing to contradict the king.

"I believe Ser Brynden has simplified matters somewhat," Varys said. "The logistical challenge of moving an army between here and Astapor is quite formidable... in both directions."

"Everything is so fucking complicated!" Robert said, taking a long pull from his goblet before slamming it down on the arm of the throne. "What would you do in my place, Brynden?"

Gee, that wasn't a loaded question at all.

"I could hardly presume to advise a king, but..." he obviously wasn't going to let me off the hook that easily, so I continued, "it seems to me that you could leave this shithole for a time even if you aren't leading an invasion. Ride the realm keeping the peace. Hold court in other cities, like the emperors of Yi Ti. Anything! This place... you know, I remember that day at the Trident. I knew even then that I was seeing a battle out of legend. Songs will be sung about that day long after we're all dead. If anybody is stupid enough to land an invasion force here, we'll need Robert Baratheon from the Ruby Ford to hammer them back into the sea. Don't let anybody bind you to that throne with chains of parchment, your grace."

Robert was silent for a long moment, deep in thought. Like I said before, he wasn't in the market for good advice. I figured he probably was in the market for rationalizations for things he already wanted to do. That, I could provide. I also genuinely believed that a happy Robert Baratheon was much better for the realm than a resentful Robert Baratheon. Happy Robert might waste his time throwing frivolous tournaments for the sheer joy of it. Resentful Robert would seed his tournament with cartoonishly over-generous prizes in an attempt to fill the bottomless hole inside of him.

There was also the fact that telling the king what he wanted to hear was probably the best way to ensure that I had a safe and pleasant stay at King's Landing.

Robert finally stood, his expression unreadable. "Thank you for your advice, ser."

"I am always at your service, your grace," I said, then paused. The serious feeling in the room had lifted as Robert shifted back into party mode. "Although, considering the occasion, I should also share some advice from an old married man to a young man about to be married."

"Some things even a king can't avoid," Robert said, a good-natured grin on his face. I obviously wasn't the first person to offer him this sort of advice.

"I'm afraid not," I said. "Now, all relationships have their ups and downs. Sometimes you'll be unhappy with your wife. Sometimes you may even fight. In those difficult moments, there is one thing you must always do: fuck her."

"What?"

It wasn't often that you got to see Robert Baratheon completely gobsmacked. I didn't pause to savor the moment.

"Nine times out of ten, when a woman is complaining about something, I've found the complaint goes away once she's been thoroughly fucked. Nagging, whining, willfulness, any manner of unpleasantness... the answer is always the same."

I gave a suggestive tug on my breeches to punctuate that little speech. That finally broke Robert's reserve and he doubled over, laughing long and loud.

Maybe Joffrey was predestined to be inflicted on this world, but that didn't mean I had to make it easy for the little bastard. The fact that I was conveying Brynden Tully's genuinely held beliefs on healthy relationships made it all the easier to make my sales pitch with sincerity.

Robert was still wheezing a bit when he spoke. "Gods, man, you... all the other old men keep telling me I need to listen to her and be kind."

"It's all the same advice, really," I said, "I've found there's only one activity that always puts me in a listening mood."

That got another round of laughter, which Robert punctuated by finishing off his goblet. He pulled a wineskin from his belt and refilled it; Robert clearly didn't have a drinking problem so much as a drinking hobby. He was kind enough to offer to refill my drink as well. One can't refuse the king, but...

"Only a half-measure for me, I think."

"Slowing down in your old age?" Robert asked as he poured out a generous 'half' measure. "The Blackfish, married and sober?"

"Ah, I cut back a while ago. I thought I told you the story..."

Robert looked interested, or at least not bored, so I continued.

"There were two sisters, both quite beautiful. They also bore a remarkable resemblance to each other," I said. "I used to visit them on alternating moons."

I closed my eyes as I recalled the memory that I was only altering a little bit for purposes of this anecdote. I think I've mentioned before that Brynden led a charmed life.

"One day the older sister plied me with fortified wine. All was well until a rather intimate moment when I called her by her younger sister's name."

Robert winced in sympathy.

"One moment it was a perfectly pleasant night, the next I had my cock stuck in a wildcat," I said, shaking my head. "An interesting experience, but not one I'd like to repeat."

ooOoo


	9. Chapter 9

AN: I actually haven't completely decided what effect the Blackfish counseling session will have on Robert's life going forward. My instinct is to think that even if one disaster is averted, that might just open up space for another disaster to happen. On the other hand, beginnings are delicate things, so changing them a bit might reasonably have knock on effects.

ooOoo

Jon Arryn buttonholed me the next morning for the most terrifying ten minutes of small talk I had ever experienced. It wasn't that he did anything threatening. It was the sheer pointlessness of the conversation. Jon was the Hand of the King. He was probably the busiest man in the realm. He did not do things by accident. And yet we just kept talking about my trip to King's Landing and the eternal efforts to improve the local sewage system.

Brynden and Jon were acquaintances. They'd spoken, but they weren't close. Their only real connection was Lysa, and I'd caught up with her and Jon earlier in the week. I knew I just wasn't politically important enough for Jon to need to exert this kind of effort on personal diplomacy. I didn't think I had done anything worth drawing his attention; I knew I hadn't done anything that would draw his attention in a positive way.

"I'm told you've taken Petyr Baelish into your employ."

"Aye," I replied automatically, blinking at the non sequitur. "I thought it would do him good to get out of that tower and stay active after... everything that happened."

"Lysa thought the same," Jon said. "I have need of someone to manage the port at Gulltown."

Brynden's memories finally helped me understand what the hell was going on in this conversation. Jon was making Petyr a job offer, and doing it with his usual deft touch. As Petyr's liege lord, Jon would technically be within his rights to order him to report to Gulltown. Even an offer that was phrased too bluntly could carry the connotations of an order. Most lords didn't appreciate being ordered around like that.

For that matter, most people in my position would get a little shirty at having a valued subordinate actively poached away from them. I was of course perfectly willing to give Jon whatever he wanted in service of my larger goal of disappearing from the minds of the people of King's Landing, but he couldn't know that yet. By approaching me, he was giving me a chance to register my objections or name my price for supporting his course of action. By approaching so obliquely he was making it clear that this was indeed to be a free choice on Petyr's part.

There's a reason this guy was able to hold the kingdom together for fifteen years in the face of a self-destructive king.

"That's kind of you, Lord Arryn."

It was thoughtful of Lysa, too. She'd always been a sweet kid.

"I'm told he's good with his figures," Jon said, "and I would hate for one of my vassal's to waste his potential through a single youthful mistake."

I nodded. "I'll tell him of your offer. I should say, though, he's taken well to military command. I suspect he will prove difficult to pry off the battlefield."

"Very well," Jon said. "Lysa will be happy to hear that he's doing so well."

I got the impression that he hadn't exactly had his heart set on recruiting Petyr. I suspected he had been doing a favor for his wife and now felt his duty had been satisfied.

Jon turned to leave. He took a few steps away, then turned back. "Brynden, you realize this Essosi invasion story is a load of shit, right?"

"I only ever said it was possible," I said, then shrugged. "Besides, if you expect the worst then you'll only ever be pleasantly surprised."

ooOoo

The wedding itself went smoothly. Did Robert take my words to heart? I couldn't say. He was certainly drinking, but he was a big guy who could hold his liquor. It was always hard to tell when he was comfortably buzzed and when he was well smashed.

Cersei didn't cut off his cock and run off after the bedding, so at least I didn't seem to have made things worse.

On a more personal note, I made it through the trip to King's Landing alive. I counted that as a win. When we arrived back in Braavos my wife delivered even better news: she had missed her last two monthlies and was sure she was pregnant. We celebrated the happy occasion in our usual vigorous fashion and I arranged for a maester to check on her periodically until childbirth, but it didn't change my plans. I still had to tend to the birth of the legion.

I arrived at the camp in the early evening. Even from a distance, it had obviously changed while I was away. What before had been only ropes and stakes marking out hopes and dreams had given rise to wooden buildings. I could make out the forms of several barracks and the company headquarters. I could also see what looked like a roof set up on stilts that seemed designed to keep the rain off of the company kitchen. The work wasn't finished but it was still satisfying to see the camp taking shape.

As I drew closer I saw that many of the men had gathered in a great scrum in the open space in front of the camp. They were shouting taunts and encouragement at something going on in the center of the gathering. I spotted Rodrik Lolliston at the outskirts of the crowd and made my way over to him.

"What's going on?"

"Welcome back, ser! This? It's a little game the boys came up with."

He gestured forward. The crowd around us had gone quiet as they realized I was back in camp. They split apart at Rodrik's gesture, revealing the men standing in the center of the crowd.

The competitors were separated in two groups of three, each group clustered around one end of a spear shaft. They were straining to push against it with all their might, although as they sensed the shift in the mood of the crowd their efforts slackened.

"They're trying to push each other out of the circle," Rodrik continued. "They started out with teams of five but we lost too many spear shafts that way."

I looked around. The men were watching me with bated breath, even the men in the circle. I suppose I was building a reputation as a disciplinarian, and this was rather undisciplined. On the other hand, it was the end of the day and they were doing this more or less on their own time. As long as they followed orders during training and during combat I didn't much care what they did to fill the rest of the day. Hells, if I'd thought about it I might have tried to introduce something like this to boost their competitive spirit.

My eyes settled on the competitors. "Did somebody tell you whoresons to stop pushing?"

There was a rousing cheer as the game began anew.

ooOoo

The next day was full of meetings. I felt a brief pang of sympathy for Robert but pushed it away to focus on the tasks in front of me. The first order of business was to talk to Rodrik and learn what had happened at the camp in my absence.

For the most part what he told me simply confirmed the evidence of my eyes. The recruits were rounding into shape physically and growing more comfortable working in formation. The physical form of the camp itself was starting to come together. And the competitiveness between groups had grown to the point of sparking physical contests, though not any real violence as of yet. Rodrik hadn't tried to tamp down on any of that kind of behavior, in part because he feared a backlash but also in part because he preferred the men be too aggressive rather than at all timid.

Rodrik also seemed to have gotten along well with the young nobles that were in charge of the individual training cohorts. They had all been eager enough to steal tricks from each other that Rodrik had hardly had to intervene at all on their training methods. I also got the impression that he had helped defuse a few potential fights as the competitiveness of the troops seeped up to affect their commanders, although he didn't particularly draw attention to it.

All in all it confirmed my initial assessment that Rodrik was a likeable guy who got along well with his peers. I wasn't sure if he would do well if he was forced to manage a really cantankerous subordinate for any length of time, but he had proven to be an excellent caretaker during my temporary absence.

I spent the rest of the morning going over the books. I'd left Petyr in charge of the supply contracts and I knew I'd have to stay on top of things to keep any embezzling down to a respectable level. As it happened, the irregularity in the books was not what I was expecting. Pleasant surprise though it may have been, it certainly required that we have a meeting.

He was rather on his guard when he arrived, which I suppose was to be expected. I waved him over next to me and pointed to the entry that had caught my attention.

"Being as we're a sellsword company that hasn't started fighting yet, I was quite surprised to see that we're already making money. What is this 'miscellaneous income,' exactly?"

"Ah, that," Petyr said, his face flushing slightly.

The silence stretched out for a long moment.

"Go on..."

"That's, well, whores."

"Petyr..." I said, "this is a sellsword company, not a brothel."

"No! They don't work for us," Petyr said, a note of genuine distress in his voice. "They just showed up one day, setting up with the rest of the camp followers. The men found out they were there before I did and, well, you told me once not to give any orders I knew wouldn't be obeyed... so I told them they could only stay if they paid for the privilege."

It's probably worth talking about the camp followers for a moment. I focused much of my attention on training up our pike blocks. We were trying to implement a tactic that was nearly brand new to Westeros, and I needed to hit the ground running in order to achieve my long term goals. The pike blocks would be the foundation of our reputation and quite reasonably occupied most of my time.

That didn't mean that our camp was filled with pikemen and only pikemen. The camp cook, blacksmith, even the laundry women all performed tasks that were essential to the smooth day to day operation of the camp, though none of them were in the military proper. They had set up their tents a little ways off from the military barracks in an area that was in some ways a temporary village in its own right. A village that now had a red light district.

I suppose it was inevitable. Over a thousand young men receiving regular pay with no girlfriends on this continent? It was a madame's dream. I should probably be grateful that Petyr hadn't taken his fee in kind.

I looked Petyr over for a moment. I should probably be grateful that he hadn't _only_ taken his fee in kind.

"Make sure they're clean," I said, then amended myself when Petyr blushed bright red. "Have a maester make sure they're clean."

A more devout commander would have been upset at Petyr yoking us into a sort of partnership with a brothel. While I had inherited some of Brynden's sincere belief in the divinity of the Seven, his attitude toward victimless crimes had never been much different than my own. I caught Petyr's eye before he could turn to leave.

"You made the right decision, Petyr. Even if I disagreed I wouldn't have been upset. You did write it down here on the ledger for me to find."

Or he wrote it down thinking I wouldn't check. I wasn't above a little positive spin to help build a subordinate's confidence, though. He might take it as softness and decide to try something a little more brazen next time, but what's life without a little risk?

"One other thing," I added as the memory came back to me, "Jon Arryn has a place for you managing the port at Gulltown if you want it."

Petyr blinked at the change in subject, then settled back into a poker face as he thought the matter through. "Lysa?"

"She worried about you, yes," I said. "I told you that you couldn't wipe out years of goodwill in one foolish moment."

I was torn as to what I wanted him to decide. Brynden's instincts told me that Jon Arryn's offer was a good one for Petyr. He was clever and ambitious. In a lot of ways, managing a great lord's financial holdings was a perfect fit. Once he found his feet and made his own way in the world his resentment over past slights should just fade away. The other part of me knew that had I never appeared here then his resentment would have in fact only grown over time.

It would have been nice if I could remember a bit better what he had actually done. I remembered that Catelyn had convinced Ned to trust him and that Petyr had betrayed that trust. I remembered that Petyr had a very creepy vibe going on around Sansa. Other than that, the details eluded me. Had I already derailed his life enough that he would be willing to let those old hurts go? I didn't know. Worst come to worst, I figured Catelyn would respect a warning from her dear uncle that Petyr had changed from the boy she remembered.

The countervailing factor to all of this was that while I might worry about how Petyr would turn out if he left the Sunset Legion, actually supervising someone who was prone to dishonesty and betrayal was a real drain on my time. As Petyr grew more experienced he was just going to be harder and harder to keep in line. I was willing to put in some effort to help save a kid that Brynden remembered fondly and co-opt a villain that I remembered being quite formidable, but I wouldn't exactly cry myself to sleep if managing him suddenly became somebody else's problem.

"It was just an offer?"

"He made it clear that you were free to accept or not, as you wish."

"And what would you have me do?"

"It's a good offer. I'd hate to lose you, but I'd understand if you decided to go," I said. "On the other hand, I've always found that a taste of real combat is good for a man. And I suspect that if you want to go home a year from now, Lord Arryn will still be able to find a place for you."

He didn't make a snap decision. That wasn't his way. I could see him take in my words of advice and try to fit them in with the rest of the puzzle pieces that he was using to build his vision of his future.

"I think I should think on this."

"Take all the time you need," I said. "Just don't slack on your duties while you're thinking things over."

ooOoo


	10. Chapter 10

ooOoo

I spent the rest of the day meeting with the other young noblemen under my command. Military command does include worrying about tactics, strategy, and logistics, but perhaps equally important-and certainly equally time consuming-was personality management. My position made me something of a father figure to my immediate subordinates, which carried with it the responsibility to head off or snuff out family squabbles.

The Blackfish had experience in a similar role from his time during on the campaign during Robert's Rebellion. Also, let's face it, guys in their late teenage years and early twenties aren't as complicated as they like to think they are. With two sets of memories of living through those ages myself it usually wasn't too hard to spot issues before they turned into crises. After two months away there were a few potential conflicts coming down the pike, but Rodrik had done a good job keeping the peace.

In addition to the individual meetings, I kept up my practice of taking meals with all of my officers. It helped me stay in touch with them, and it kept them from hovering over the recruits. We were working the recruits hard, so it was only fair that we give them a bit of space to vent harmless frustration among themselves.

For their part, the recruits were looking sharp. The two months of extra drill that they had in my absence was showing up in crisp close order marching. They could even level their pikes and advance on the double without anybody getting knocked about or tripped up. Even with blunted spears, it was an intimidating sight.

The next order of business would be to polish up their ability to change direction and, most importantly, to form up into a defensive square as quickly and smoothly as possible. The thing about war is that the things you need to do are simple, but doing them in the crucible of the battlefield is hard. Friction, I think the term is. If I ever sit down to seriously plagiarize my old world's greats I'll need to puzzle out the rest of that quote. In any event, we wouldn't know for sure if our men could execute their maneuvers in battle conditions until they actually did it, but we would do what we could to drill everything into their heads through sheer repetition.

At three months since training began it was also time to start figuring out who would become our crossbowmen. My initial thought was that we'd be picking from the smaller recruits who weren't as well suited to the physical nature of melee fighting. My initial thought was wrong. Reloading a heavy crossbow is a genuine physical challenge. The stronger the recruit, the more quickly they could reload. Of course, a fast rate of fire was no good unless they could send those bolts on target.

Petyr came to talk with me while I was watching recruits cycle through our shooting range.

"I've decided to decline Lord Arryn's offer."

"All right," I said, "I will write Lord Arryn with the news, unless you'd prefer to write him yourself."

I was curious as to Petyr's thinking, but knew better than to pry. Brynden had learned through long experience that the Tully children and Petyr were happy to talk to a sympathetic ear but tended to clam up under questioning. I simply waited for a long moment, the silence between us only broken by the thunk of crossbow bolts hitting home and the occasional curse as shooters missed their targets.

"I'll write," Petyr said. "I don't think I'm ready to face Lysa just yet, but I suppose I should at least send her husband my regards."

I nodded. "You only have so many childhood friends."

I did hope that he wouldn't let his friendship with Lysa fall by the wayside. They had been inseparable as children. In the end, though, it would be his decision.

ooOoo

Day by day, week by week, month by month, the Sunset Legion was coming together. The training camp no longer looked like a massive concert campground as the last of tents were finally replaced with permanent wooden buildings. The recruits no longer looked like painfully young kids fresh off the farms. They still looked painfully young, but they moved with purpose, they moved with confidence, and when called upon they moved together as a unit.

One month before the first cohort was to finish their training, I slipped away for a quick trip to Braavos. I had some business to discuss with the Iron Bank as well as a few special supplies to gather. I also, of course, was happy for the chance to see my wife.

I have to admit, the old Blackfish did get a bit choked up on entering the manor and seeing her visibly pregnant for the first time. At four months pregnant a baby bump was clearly visible on her tiny frame, but the extra weight was not yet impeding her ability to engage in physical activities. A fact that she was all too happy to demonstrate shortly after my arrival. It was hard to drag myself away and return to the legion, but I did my duty.

Six months after they had arrived at camp Petyr Baelish's group-the men I had recruited-were finished with their initial training. Of the original one hundred, four had suffered severe injuries and washed out, six had suffered sickness or minor injury that prevented them from graduating with their peers, and one had been dismissed for insubordination. The others had made it through everything we could throw at them and come out the other end with their heads held high.

Of course, such an occasion deserved a certain amount of ceremony, which was why the entire population of the camp was gathered at the parade ground. Petyr's cohort had pride of place, arrayed in ranks in the center of the open square. The rest of the recruits formed a loose semi-circle as they watched the show. I stood in front of Petyr's troops, my hands clasped behind my back.

They looked sharp, there was no denying it. The base of the uniform was a gambeson, the surprisingly effective cloth armor, dyed bright red. Over the cloth they wore a cuirass-a solid breastplate and back plate fastened together, with shoulder pauldrons and a brief metal skirt bolted on for additional protection-each of which had been polished until it shone. The uniform was literally topped off with matching protective helmets. The helmets were open faced but incorporated significant protection for the neck and cheeks into their simple construction. I had indulged in a bit of showmanship and had the helmets lined with bright orange fabric. It would help prevent rust and it certainly made for a unique look.

Petyr was standing at attention next to his men to the left of their line. I nodded at him and he turned and indicated for the recruit next to him to step forward and stand before me. He was a big lad, taller than me and broader across the shoulders. He had the frame to be a proper terror on the battlefield. For all that, he was young. Some baby fat had managed to cling to his face through six months of hard training and he was visibly nervous as I examined him.

I always felt a little bit like an imposter when I traded on the reputation Brynden had built up before my arrival. This soldier, though, was mostly responding to my actions. He knew that I had founded the legion. He had seen me command the men that commanded him. For once I didn't feel even a smidgen of guilt at being treated with respect.

I turned to address Petyr. "Lord Baelish, who is this that stands before me?"

"Joss of Riverrun, captain."

"And why is he here?"

"I wish to nominate him for full membership in the legion, captain."

"Has he completed his training faithfully and well?"

"Yes, captain."

"Does he possess sound mind, sound body, and good character?"

"Yes, captain."

"Will he do the legion proud?"

"Yes, captain."

"Very well," I said, then turned back to Joss. He had clenched his fists to control their trembling but otherwise seemed to be holding together well. "Take a knee, son."

He knelt.

"Do you swear that you will bear true faith and allegiance to the Sunset Legion; that you will oppose its enemies, whoever they may be; and that you will follow the orders of the Captain and his designated officers?"

"I do, captain."

I turned to my assistant and took hold of the lanyard that he was holding out to me. Dangling from the end of it was a small bronze medallion, embossed with the legion's design: a half-circle fixed to the bottom of the medal with seven rays reaching out to the edges. An examination of the back of the metal would show that it was engraved with Joss's name and the designation "#00001." I had brought a crate full of them back with me from Braavos and had turned the lot of them over to my assistant to keep track of during the ceremony.

I brought the lanyard over Joss's head and let the medallion fall in place with a soft ping.

"You are no longer a recruit in training. This token marks you as a fully-fledged private soldier of the Sunset Legion. Congratulations."

There was a long pause, before I spoke again, this time not pitched to carry. "You can stand up now, soldier."

He stood. The camp erupted in cheers, and I gave him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder before sending him back to stand in line. The men around him craned their necks to try to get a look at his medallion. I was gratified to see their interest but even happier to see that they didn't break ranks to satisfy their curiosity.

I nodded at Petyr, and he sent the next man forward.

Processing all eighty-nine of the men took the better part of two hours. By the end my feet hurt, my throat was sore, and my back ached. I could see some of the men fidgeting, but nobody was showing any real sign of wanting to leave. While the initial wild excitement had died down, there was still a real buzz of interest among the men.

When the last private had been given his token and sent back in line, I nodded at Petyr once more. This time, he called out a name.

"Theo! Step forward."

There was a bit of confusion, the sound of people being shoved aside, and then the front ranks parted and someone who must have been Theo stepped towards me. He looked a bit confused, but rather than saying anything he simply took the same place that he had before, standing in front of me while trying to keep a wary eye on me and Petyr at the same time. I looked him over, a bit more curiously than I had before. His overall build spoke of wiry strength and there was a certain wary intelligence in his eyes.

I turned to address Petyr. "Lord Baelish, who is this that stands before me?"

"Theo of Riverrun, captain."

"And why is he here?"

"I wish to nominate him for promotion to sergeant, captain."

"Very well," I said, turning to address Theo but speaking loudly enough to be heard by all. "As a sergeant you will march on the left end of the formation. You will relay orders to the men and correct any who fall out of line. You will also be entitled to an extra share of the prize pool. Do you accept this promotion?"

Theo didn't respond right away. I wasn't too worried. Petyr was a decent judge of character and wouldn't pick somebody who would turn down the job.

"I do, captain."

"Your helm, please."

He removed his helm and held it out to me. I took it from him and gestured at my aide, who responded by handing me a magnificent white feather. I attached the plume to the top of the helmet and returned it to Theo.

"Congratulations, sergeant."

Promoting the sergeants went rather more quickly than the previous portion of the ceremony, being as there were only nine of them. When the last was back in line I looked at Petyr once again.

"Lord Baelish. Step forward!"

He did so. I held out my hand and, without prompting, he removed his helmet and handed it to me.

"Lord Baelish, you have done an exemplary job leading your recruits through their training," I said. "I hereby appoint you a lieutenant in the Sunset Legion."

The feather that I attached to his helmet was bright red. As I handed it back to him, I spoke softly. "Congratulations, Petyr."

He nodded, his expression tightly controlled as he put his helmet back on and moved back to stand in line.

"Men!" I called out, addressing everyone once more, "by completing your training you are now the First Century of the Sunset Legion!"

That prompted a spontaneous cheer. I paused to let it die down, fighting hard to keep a properly severe look on my face instead of breaking out in a silly grin.

"You will march under the command of Lieutenant Baelish," I continued. "And, of course, any men marching off to battle needs a proper standard."

I signaled to my men standing by the flagpole at the front of the parade ground. They worked together to clip the flag they were holding in place and run it up to flap in the breeze for all to see. I was rather proud of my graphic design job. The base of the flag was white, with a navy blue strip running along the bottom edge. A red half disc was sewn onto the white background to symbolize the setting sun, placed just slightly off center with seven stylized rays stretching to the edge of the flag.

Yes, I was shamelessly ripping off the Japanese ensign from the World War II era. If somebody showed up to complain I'd have much bigger things to worry about than a bit of stolen intellectual property.

The men cheered again as the flag went up. I would have liked to take it as a commentary on my artistic skill, but in all honesty they were probably ready to cheer anything. I waited a moment for them to quiet down before launching into my last announcement of the day.

"And we will be marching off to battle soon! As soon as the rest of you finish training, we sail for the Disputed Lands! Tyrosh is tired of paying men to sit on their arses and they're looking to us to tip the balance!"

ooOoo


	11. Chapter 11

ooOoo

The Disputed Lands. In Westeros, everybody knew about them but few knew them. Maesters tell their charges that the Disputed Lands have been the subject of wars between Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys for three hundred years. Usually in passing during a general lesson on the history of the Free Cities. Rare indeed is the student who asks a pointed follow up question.

How can these cities afford to pay for nearly constant fighting for three hundred years? How can these lands be worth taking after spending three centuries as a battleground? How is it that in three hundred years the only time one of the combatants was occupied was when the Ninepenny Kings took Tyrosh?

At some point in their history the three cities bordering the Disputed Lands realized that you get more wool over the long term by shearing a sheep rather than skinning it. Through some combination of agreement, habit, and custom, war in the Disputed Lands took on a level of restraint that was unheard of in Westeros. Armies actually paid farmers when commandeering their food. The use of scorched earth tactics was anathema. On capturing a city there was no looting: instead the city paid an agreed-upon sum to be split between the army and their sponsor.

In many ways, the fighting in the Disputed Lands was more like an aggressive form of tax collection than a war.

And yes, there were cities in the Disputed Lands, even if none quite merited mention in Westerosi maps. The Disputed Lands themselves are an area of fertile farmland nearly half the size of Dorne immediately adjacent to three rich international trading hubs. Of course there were cities. Some had a nearly unbroken tradition of fealty to Tyrosh. Some to Lys, and some to Myr. Others existed in a more fluid situation.

The Ninepenny Kings had kicked over the equilibrium enjoyed by the three Free Cities. By blitzing the Disputed Lands with a massive outside force they had been able to take Tyrosh before the other two cities realized what was happening. While they only ever truly controlled the Tyroshi sphere of the Disputed Lands, that alone was enough to fund quite a bit of foreign adventurism.

After the Ninepenny Kings were thrown down by the Westerosi, the old balance in the Disputed Lands gradually reasserted itself. The most recent news from the area-at least according to my contact at the Iron Bank-was of the campaign run by the Tattered Prince, leader of the Windblown. The famous sellsword had dislodged the garrison of a city that Myr had held for some time, raising hopes of future triumphs. Then he had promptly stopped his march upon encountering a larger force of sellswords and had dug in to a defensive position only a few days' march from the site of his initial victory.

The Tyroshi had tired of the stalemate. Their leaders had indulged in some semi-public grumbling about the need to hire somebody to bolster the Windblown forces and regain the strategic momentum. Fortunately for me, their friends in the Iron Bank were also my friends in the Iron Bank and were happy to talk up the new force of heavy infantry being raised under the command of the famous Blackfish.

And so it was that I found myself heading to a meeting with a notorious sellsword in the middle of the Disputed Lands. We had had the good fortune of being able to sail to within a week's march of the battlefield. The Tyroshi had been impatient enough to break the stalemate that they hadn't put up much of a fight before agreeing to provide our transportation. The ensuing march had given everybody a chance to get over any lingering sea sickness and knock off any rust that had developed during the month at sea. We had set up camp on the reverse side of the hills on which the Tattered Prince had built his fortifications. While the other side probably had some inkling that we were coming, there was no need to make it easy for them to get a measure of our strength. With the camp was set up to my satisfaction I had gathered Rodrik, Petyr, and Walder to me and set out to meet with our allies. We were met by an outrider shortly after leaving our camp and followed his lead to the Tattered Prince.

My first impression of the Windblown came not from meeting their leader nor from seeing them in battle but rather from observing how they had made their camp. It was not laid out with the military precision that I preferred, but it was obvious that some thought had been put in to arranging things so that they would be able to assemble and move large bodies of men unimpeded through camp. Their gear showed wear and tear and some of the filth of the campaign trail, but it also showed signs of careful maintenance. While there was plenty of dirty fabric on display, I did not see any signs of tents rotting or falling apart. Overall, the Windblown struck me as a group that knew their business, even if they didn't show all the spit and polish that I might prefer.

It was easy to see who was in charge upon walking into the command tent. Many of the sellswords cultivated an outlandish or exotic appearance: a Tyroshi with a triply forked beard dyed bright green, a Braavosi wearing the full peacock-like display of the dedicated bravo. But all of them clearly took their lead from the quiet man with the serious eyes seated in the middle of the room. He wore a brightly colored cloak of his own, a garish thing allegedly woven from strips of fabric taken from men that he'd killed, but in truth he needed no ostentatious display to command attention.

He inclined his head in greeting. "Ser Brynden Tully. You honor us with your presence."

I was relieved that he spoke in the Westerosi common tongue. I was working on my command of low Valyrian but it was still shaky. I was less than pleased to find that he seemed to resent my presence here, but Brynden had run into this kind of thing before. I gave a small smile before I replied.

"I suppose I do."

The side of his mouth quirked up in amusement. Whether he appreciated the blunt reply or felt he had gotten one over on the boorish Westerosi, I couldn't say.

"You've arrived just in time for the afternoon show."

I raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. He stood and made his way out of the tent accompanied by his lieutenants. I fell in step behind him along with my own lieutenants. He led us up over the top of the hill, giving me the first chance to see his defensive emplacements as well as our opposition.

The Windblown had established a simple ditch and palisade obstacle that stretched across to block off not only the road but the width of the valley. Most of their men were divided up between the two hills overlooking the road, themselves protected by smaller defensive emplacements dotted all over the hillside. All in all, it was a formidable barrier. The Windblown themselves looked relaxed, ready to move into action if need be but not particularly anxious about it.

Our opponents were milling around in the valley below. Some of them were gesturing toward us with their weapons, no doubt hurling imprecations that we could not hear at such a distance. Others were making ruder gestures that were easy to see even from so far away. Their leader was on a horse, riding back and forth in front of the line and exhorting his troops.

Brynden's experienced eye was not impressed. Oh, these men had weapons and a willingness to do violence, which could certainly carry you a long way. They also outnumbered the Windblown something like three thousand to two thousand, though it was hard to estimate that sort of thing with precision. They showed none of the quiet professionalism that even I could see in the Windblown troops, and displayed precious little evidence of any serious experience with warfare. Their armor was mismatched and often non-existent, and it seemed to me that this little display was aimed at bolstering their morale as much as it was an attempt to taunt the Tattered Prince into doing something rash.

I turned my attention from the enemy below to the Tattered Prince. He had a knowing look in his eye, resembling nothing more than a teacher waiting for a pupil to work their way to the right conclusion. I found myself bristling a little bit at the condescension. He might have a few years on Brynden Tully, but no more than a few, and Brynden was a veteran of a life spent at war or training for war. I certainly didn't accept this contract so I could spend the campaign learning at the knee of the Tattered Prince. I took a deep breath and did my best to get my sudden irritation under control before speaking.

"You could have driven them back any time you liked."

"Could I have?" He seemed unfazed by the implied accusation.

"Don't play coy. That bunch down there couldn't stand up a long against a firm push from your lot."

"Attacking into superior numbers is always a risk," he replied, "but let's suppose you're right. We could defeat them. But at what cost? And for what benefit?"

I just stared at him. This sounded like the worst stereotype of mercenary troops come to life: a commander happy to sit in a defensive position for months on end as long as his troops were being paid. I could only hope that the Tattered Prince was going somewhere with this.

"So long as we hold these hills, Tyrosh collects tribute from the city we captured. We get paid for our hard work and everyone profits. If we attack we could win through. We could take the next city, and earn a bonus. We could also lose and be pushed back. And even if we did win, of course, quite a few of my men wouldn't live to see it," he said. "Were I fighting in a rebellion with the fate of a kingdom at stake then I might ignore their superior numbers and trust my men to carry the day. In this fight for the profit of Tyrosh, for my own profit, and for the profit of my men... it simply isn't worth the risk."

"I see," I said, and I did. The Tattered Prince didn't doubt the ability of Brynden Tully as a military leader of men, but he had some reservations about Brynden Tully, sellsword captain. And rightly so. Brynden had experience in warfare in Westeros. I had experience with corporations and their ability to make cold-blooded decisions with an eye towards the bottom line. But the Tattered Prince had synthesized the two viewpoints in a way that I still hadn't. Perhaps I would be learning from him after all.

"Now that the numbers are even, I assume you have no objection to joining us in an attack?" I asked.

"None at all."

He favored me with a very calculating smile, and I was suddenly very glad that we were on the same side.

ooOoo

The legion was woken by a bugle call, as usual. The soldiers all milled together as they ate breakfast, as usual. They formed up in squares, as usual. They would be marching off to battle today, which was not at all as usual. There was an undeniable thrill of anticipation in the air. I did my best to conduct myself as usual to help keep the soldiers on an even keel, but standing there before them I felt compelled to make a speech.

"You have been training for this moment for six long months. Those boys over there have no idea what's about to hit them. I almost feel sorry for those bastards," I said, prompting some laughter and good-natured jeering, "but not enough to call you men off. Let's get out there and introduce the world to the Sunset Legion!"

The drums began to play and the men began to march down the road, formed up into their squares although not yet crowded in shoulder to shoulder. I fell in behind them together with Rodrik Lolliston and my assistants. Rodrik had done a good job shepherding his men through the training process, but as a result of recruits washing out we had needed to reorganize the men to get all of the centuries up to full strength, leaving me with eleven centuries and twelve lieutenants. I eventually intended to rotate Rodrik through a combat command but for this first encounter I thought it best to have him with me.

We came around a bend in the road and saw the Windblown gathered up to wait for us. As our front element approached the back of the palisade a team from the Windblown put their shoulders to a section of the wall that they had dug out overnight, tipping the logs over and forming a gap in the wall and a bridge over the ditch all in one.

The centuries of the Sunset Legion marched through one by one and formed up in the formation they would be taking into battle. Four centuries positioned side by side made up the first column, forming a block of men forty men wide by ten men deep. To their left and several paces behind them, the second column was made up of three centuries side by side. Finally, to the left of the second column and several more paces behind, the reserve column was three centuries in a line, forming a block ten men wide and thirty men deep.

A note regarding the use of a two handed spear: when you want to stab somebody with a twenty-foot long spear, the upper body position you use is not unlike what you would use to throw a baseball. Opening up your torso with your left shoulder forward of the right allows you to keep the spear pointed directly ahead of you while holding on with both hands. It also produces the feeling of turning your back on your left hand side and makes it harder to look to your left than your right.

Accordingly, while the Sunset Legion didn't have the problem of men leaning in one direction or the other to take advantage of a neighbor's shield, they still had a bit of a tendency to veer left. I had tried to fight that by putting our sergeants, hand-picked for reliability, on the left end of the line. Our battle alignment was aimed in part at the same problem: my hope was that the knowledge that support was coming up on the left would help the men resist the temptation to "protect their backs" by edging left.

As the legionnaires settled into their formation the Windblown were pouring out from their fortifications. Their light melee fighters and missile troops formed loose skirmish lines on either side of our formation. I was a little surprised to see that they were all infantry. Looking back, I saw the Windblown's cavalry-all three or four hundred of them-were being held in reserve. That either showed a touching faith in our abilities or an insulting skepticism. I shrugged and decided to take it as a compliment.

I and my command staff were in position at the head of the first column, just to their right. Once they started moving we'd allow them to pass us before falling in behind them. For now, I had a terrific view of the battlefield.

Approximately a thousand yards away, our opponents had fallen silent. They'd been engaged in their usual game of taunting the Windblown when we came pouring out of their fortifications, and they seemed surprised at the prospect of real battle. I thought I could see some signs that they were losing their nerve already, although Brynden's experience told me that that was probably wishful thinking.

I gave the legion one last look before turning to Rodrik.

"Everything seems to be in order."

Rodrik grinned, unable to contain his excitement. "Looks that way to me, captain."

I turned to the drummer. "Sound the advance."

He beat a rapid tattoo on the drums. The drummer assigned to each column picked it up, gradually falling in sync on the second repetition. On the third, the legion began to march.

ooOoo


	12. Chapter 12

AN: Baffling absence of gunpowder continues... or does it? Yeah, it does.

ooOoo

Brynden Tully was widely regarded as something of an expert in warfare. Not as a strategic or tactical genius-though he was no slouch in those areas-but rather, a man who was skilled at solving the nuts and bolts problem of convincing people to fight. It's an issue that's a bit difficult for the modern mind to grasp.

Imagine you and a friend were standing on the goal line of a football field. Up ahead of you on the twenty-yard line is a man with a spear, or a sword, or a big fucking warhammer in his hand, and he has every intention of using that weapon to kill anybody that gets near him. Now: how do you convince your friend to start walking towards that bad man?

There are a few tried and true methods, of course. You recruit your armies from young men who are naturally programmed to think of themselves as invincible badasses. You train them, both to impart skills and to give them the confidence to believe they are invincible badasses. You encourage them to take up macho hobbies like jousting and boar hunting so they continue building up that personal image of themselves as invincible badasses. You give them a pep talk where you remind them what invincible badasses they are and how that bad guy over there is a paper tiger ready to go down at the first hint of resistance.

Basically, large chunks of Westerosi society are designed or have evolved to crank out men who are prone to violence and have a nearly psychotic disregard for their own lives and the lives of others. It makes them tough to be around in peace time but they're worth their weight in gold when it comes to medieval melee combat. There is a peer pressure element to it as well, but the fundamental unit of the army is the individual and the focus on training is to prime that individual for violence. Even with all of that effort it was still a rare individual who was willing to take that first step forward towards a murderous enemy.

That's one of the reasons Robert was unanimously acclaimed as king, by the by. He was driven by such rage that he fought the entire rebellion with a complete disregard for his own life. His inspirational leadership covered over all manner of deficiencies in the size and composition of the army behind him.

The Sunset Legion took a different approach. Oh, we recruited young men and encouraged a macho attitude, but we also changed the fundamental unit from the individual to the group. In all of the drilling, the recruits got used to the idea of marching in close order with their comrades. Having friends packed in all around you gives a sense of security. It also creates a great sense that you ought to step forward since everybody around you is stepping forward. The peer pressure was built in from the beginning instead of a happy accident resulting from one or two exceptional individuals leading by example.

The other new factor to our approach was the packed in formation itself. In addition to providing peer pressure, there was a very real physical pressure involved. Anybody who hesitated or started dragging their feet would get shoved forward by the guy behind them. Trying to stop carried a serious risk of getting pushed over and trampled by the rest of the formation. It tipped the balance so that it was in the moment physically safer to keep moving toward the enemy than to try to stop.

All of which is to say that I had invested a tremendous amount of money, time, and effort so that at this moment facing this opposition my blocks of soldiers would move forward without hesitation. And they did.

Now, on the other side of the field, they were still operating on the paradigm of the individual badass. And they certainly had some badasses over there. You don't sign up with a sellsword company if you're a physical coward. Still, though, there's a natural human reaction when a bunch of guys come marching towards you with spears leveled in your direction: you take a step back. Maybe two or three. Not running away, mind, but maybe letting your friends take the first crack at the opposing spear block before you jump in.

As we drew closer to the enemy lines they took on a distinctly ragged edge. I could hear the enemy leaders bawling out their men, cursing them out and pushing them forward. And they had some success. Here and there men stood fast in the face of the approaching pike formation. But not quite as many stood fast as started edging backwards.

They also started firing missile weapons at us. I smiled as I heard our sergeants bawling out the few men who had looked up to watch the incoming arrows. At this distance arrows weren't much of a threat. Odds were that they weren't hit anything, many of the arrows that reached the formation would deflect off of the pikes held at the ready position, and anything that got through that would deflect off our armor. If you stared up at the sky to watch them come in, though, you opened up the chance of catching an arrow in the face.

The first volley clattered down around us to no effect. The men kept marching, and I saw a few more of the enemy back away from the front line.

The second volley came down. I heard a couple curses as arrows caught men in vulnerable spots, and one man stumbled out of formation and fell down on the ground. I didn't have time to watch him, though, as I was gauging the distance to the enemy.

"Sound the charge!"

The drumbeat next to me changed, sounding out a more urgent rhythm. The other drums picked up the rhythm, and the columns broke into a trot. At that point things began to happen very quickly.

The initial moment of contact was not the single grand crash of organized phalanx into barbarian flesh that you might see in a Hollywood epic. Instead there was a sort of pitter-patter as the men still holding their ground tried their luck against five, ten, or twenty spearheads at a time. Judging by the legion's nearly uninterrupted advance, it did not go well for them.

I did see one swordsman pop to his feet in the middle of the press of bodies after somehow rolling under the initial line of attack. He was a big barbarian warrior type, all in leather with his long hair flying around as he laid about him with his sword. In the press of bodies it was hard for anybody to fight back, and the structure of the legion started to distort as people edged away from him.

I saw his sword come down once, twice, then stop. He bent over, a surprised expression on his face, and in so doing revealed the crossbow bolt embedded in his back. One of our crossbowmen tossed his now-unloaded crossbow aside as he took a step forward, reaching over to dig his fingers into the barbarian's eye sockets. He used this grip to yank the man's head back before drawing his knife across his throat in one swift motion, leaning back to howl at the sky as his opponent's lifeblood splashed off his armor.

I felt a brief moment of cognitive dissonance as my instinctive horror at the sight clashed with Brynden's instinctive appreciation for the young man's initiative. I shook it off and looked for Petyr, as it was his century that had been disrupted. He had been staring back at the individual battle, but read my intention as soon as he met my eyes, turning to bawl orders at his men without any input from me.

"Stop gawping and start marching, you cunts!"

His sergeants took up the cry, dragging the men back in line. Soon enough they were pressed up against the front lines that had been steadily moving forward throughout. The men in the enemy center who had run away from the initial clash had regrouped, only to start backing away again. Again the legion hit them, and again the legion continued pressing onward. The delay from the impact allowed the second column to catch up to the first, presenting a front of seventy men marching forward implacably, spears at the ready.

The enemy regrouped again, and again was thrown back. This time, they didn't stop running. The fear was like a contagion spreading throughout the enemy center, infecting all that had been watching the battle develop. Soon, every enemy soldier before us had his backs turned and was running away as fast as his legs could carry them.

The sight of a fleeing enemy strikes a very powerful chord in the heart of any man, and for all of their training the soldiers under my command were still men of flesh and blood, vulnerable to temptation. The front row of our column started to separate from the others as the men broke from their measured trot into a sprint, eager to catch their routed foe. I could see the second row starting to follow suit and was forced to resort to one of the few modern inventions I had managed to reproduce, drawing my pea whistle from beneath my armor and letting loose with a sustained ear-piercing blast.

This was one signal that we had trained to an almost automatic response. I was gratified to watch as men who had been running forward with blood in their eyes came to a screeching halt, kneeling on the ground and bracing their spears as though to receive a cavalry charge. The entire formation changed in an instant from a marching column to a stationary pincushion ready to repel an attack from any angle.

When the echo of the whistle faded away and all the men were frozen in place, there was an echoing silence. No, not silence, exactly. A rumbling noise drew my attention, and I looked back to see the Tattered Prince leading his cavalry into a gallop. They smoothly split in two to flow around our pike blocks, then split again. The main body of the cavalry continued in pursuit of the routed enemy, while twenty or so men split off to ride along the skirmish line in each direction. With their center broken and cavalry bearing down on them from the sides, it wasn't long before the entire enemy force was in flight.

Another moment later and the enemy forces had disappeared around a bend in the road, cutting off our view of the pursuit. The Windblown skirmishers had shifted to... yes, as I watched I could confirm that they were busily looting corpses. Still, the Sunset Legion pikes held their defensive position. I turned to one of my assistants.

"Send for the maester to tend to the wounded-never mind," I corrected myself as I saw a familiar figure ride out from behind our old fortifications, "just go make sure that food and water are ready behind the palisade."

He ran off and I walked around to stand in front of the legion. I gestured and the lieutenants soon had the men facing forward, pikes held vertically and all eyes on me. I drew my sword and held it high over my head. That drew a raucous cheer from the men.

"Victory!" That got another cheer out of them. I waited until they quieted down, then continued.

"The first of many!" I said. Another cheer, though less frenetic this time. "We'll take position behind the built up defenses while we wait to hear word of the pursuit. Food and water will be by the side of the road behind the palisade. Stay with your century and don't let your weapon stray too far from your hand, but otherwise you can relax and enjoy the moment."

The men gave a final cheer before breaking out of their tidy formations and walking back towards the palisade. As they walked away I could hear the beginnings of what Brynden recognized as the usual after battle behavior: swapping stories, telling lies, and laughing at bad jokes. Few things make you feel so alive as living through a situation when other people were killed.

I indicated for my lieutenants to stay behind for a moment. They broke off from their men and soon stood arrayed in a loose semicircle around me.

"You've done well. Today's victory is a testament to the hard work you put in making real soldiers out of raw recruits," I said. "And, as in any form of human endeavor, success begets paperwork."

Somewhere in Westeros, a little piece of Robert Baratheon's soul shriveled up and died.

My audience at least had the good sense to restrain themselves to good-natured complaints. I deployed the vital command skill of selective deafness as I reached into the satchel I had snagged from my assistant and pulled out a pile of clipboards. Each clipboard was loaded with a set of forms and a charcoal-well, "pencil" was a generous term, but it could be used to write. The forms were simple, containing a header with blank spots for the date and combat action, and two questions: "What happened?" and "How could the Sunset Legion have done a better job?" I handed the stack of clipboards to Petyr, who took one and passed them along. Soon enough everybody who had had a combat command had one.

"I want you to meet with each of your sergeants and talk them through an after action report, then write up one of your own. We'll meet afterwards to discuss them," I said, then waved them into silence when they started to grumble. "Hey, not every victory is going to be this easy. We need to keep getting better. An army might march on its stomach, but it thinks with its paperwork."

ooOoo

If the Tattered Prince thought it odd to return to find me gathered with my leadership cadre around a writing desk, he kept it to himself. By the time he arrived back at our fortifications after breaking off his pursuit, the basic results of the battle had started to take shape for our written records. We had lost two men, and another two had suffered serious injuries. Three of our men were what a football coach might describe as hurt but not injured. Against that we had killed thirty or forty enemy sellswords, in addition to putting their company to flight.

The after action discussion had turned up two major areas for improvement. First, our crossbowmen hadn't been given a chance to do much in the battle. Second, the most notable act by a crossbowman of slaughtering a man who had broken into our formation seemed to reveal a weakness in our plans. Impressive though his actions had been, it didn't seem like that sort of thing should be the crossbowmen's responsibility. The obvious suggestion was to have a few of the men trade out their pikes for a different weapon to be used against any enemy that sneaked into the formation. Just what weapon that should be, and just how we might best use our crossbows, were both subject to a spirited debate that was put on hold when the Tattered Prince rode into view.

He came to us with good news: our victory had indeed been as complete as it appeared. He and his riders had killed hundreds of fleeing sellswords, and the survivors were scattered to the Seven Hells. It would be days or weeks before they became an effective fighting force again, and there was a chance that they might simply fade away. It had been known to happen to sellsword companies that suffered truly catastrophic defeats. With nothing but cash to motivate them there was no reason to stick around with a losing side when they could wander off on their own and try to sign up with a more effective company.

With enemy sellswords scattered, Myr was left with approximately zero effective military units in our area. That meant that after a good night's sleep the next order of business was to march on to the city the sellswords had been defending and prepare to put it under siege.

ooOoo


	13. Chapter 13

AN: Careful readers will notice that I haven't ruled out having hired Alchemists off screen to work on refining Uranium-235. Is the lack of detail on the baggage train a bit of ominous foreshadowing? You decide.

ooOoo

Marching alongside an army can give you a sense of their character. In the case of the Windblown, they continued to reinforce my initial impression of seasoned competence. They went about their tasks with regularity, if not enthusiasm. While many of them cut somewhat disreputable figures, a closer inspection would always reveal a man who kept his weapon sharp, his armor well-tended and close at hand, and his boots just so. They all seemed comfortable with the company's basic task of marching from point to point and winning battles when they arrived.

One detail that did reveal itself over the next two days of marching was that the Tattered Prince's co-founders were not mere underlings. Each of the five of them had two or three hundred men who followed his orders, primarily socialized among themselves, and, unless I missed my guess, owed their ultimate loyalty to their smaller group rather than to the company as a whole. When the Windblown made camp a close observation showed that it resembled the camp of five or six closely allied armies rather than the camp of a single unit.

That was, I suppose, the natural result when a sellsword company is formed through the merger of several different fighting forces. I couldn't help but wonder what it meant for the long term stability of the Windblown. Would one of the co-founders chafe under the direction of the Tattered Prince and seek to rally the others for a change in leadership? Would one of them decide to seek fame and fortune by leading their men off on their own path? On the other hand, would that experience allow one of the others to step forward and assume the mantle of leadership if the Tattered Prince were to fall in combat? I couldn't say.

For our part, I thought that the Sunset Legion did everything with an admirable sense of unity. Though our legionnaires were not veteran campaigners, they were buoyed up by the excitement of their first victory and filled with the energy of youth. They also had had the benefit of six months of training so that while they might not know the ins and outs of soldiery through lessons of hard experience they still performed their duties well by rote. This was aided by the more structured daily life that I had imposed.

For example, our camp was laid out the same way every night. Scouts were sent to accompany the outriders whose sole job was to pick out a location for the camp and stake out its perimeter. As each century arrived the soldiers were put to work digging ditches around the outside of the camp, tossing the loose earth to the inside of the camp where it was used to build up a low wall. The ditchworks were not continuous as the purpose of the defensive works was to break up any massed attack on the camp and to buy time for us to assemble our counterattack, rather than to serve as some kind of impregnable fort.

Within the camp, each tent had its place. The lower third of the camp was reserved for our supply wagons and provided space for our maester to practice medicine and our smith to conduct repairs. The middle third of the camp housed our legionnaires. Each line of a century, consisting of ten men, shared one tent. The ten tents of a century lined up in a row facing the tents of the century opposite defined one of the five lanes running the length of the camp.

The final third of the camp was officer country. I had my command tent there, large enough to hold all of my paperwork and to comfortably host a meeting with all of my lieutenants. Each of my lieutenants had their own tent that they could use to handle business of their century. This left a large open area that was used as a parade ground or, more frequently, as a gathering place to announce the day's orders before breaking camp.

I wasn't exactly living out my fantasy of leading the Roman legion reborn, but all the activity left the men too worn out for mischief and I at least felt reasonably secure when I went to sleep at night. The Tattered Prince did ask me why I was ordering such extensive defensive works built when all the scouts indicated there were no enemy forces nearby. My response that I was looking to build good habits didn't seem to persuade him, but he also didn't seem particularly bothered as long as I confined such pointless activity to my own men.

Our third day of marching ended early when we came upon a walled city at midday. While our men busied themselves making camp the Tattered Prince requested my presence and led me on a leisurely stroll toward the city walls. I held my tongue at first and waited for him to break the silence, but as the walls drew closer and closer I finally felt compelled to speak.

"We'll be within bow shot range soon."

"Warfare in the Disputed Lands is not like the war you are used to," he replied.

I bristled at his slightly condescending tone but refused to let it show. I also refused to show any nervousness as we walked closer and closer to the town. If this was some kind of test to see who was the most suicidally reckless and willing to expose himself to enemy fire... maybe it wasn't smart to have gotten into such a contest, but I certainly wasn't going to lose it.

Slightly to my surprise, no arrows came raining down out of the sky around us. The only sign that we weren't two travellers approaching a friendly city was the front gate, which had been closed and barred. We were within thirty feet of the gate when we were hailed from the guardhouse standing atop the wall.

"What business have you with the city of Aksay?"

"We come to negotiate your surrender," the Tattered Prince announced.

"We refuse."

"Our armies control the field. If we reduce your defences we will carry off anything of value and burn what's left."

The guard at the gate hardly blinked at the threat. "Our fortifications are strong enough to hold you off for four weeks."

How oddly specific.

"Very well," the Tattered Prince said, before turning to walk away. I kept pace by his shoulder and held my tongue until we were out of earshot from the gate.

"Now what?"

"Now we wait. If we are not driven off in four weeks-and I suspect we will not even come under attack-then the city will surrender."

"An odd sort of siege," I said.

"The pay is much the same as any other," he said, shrugging. "Upon surrender, we will accept a generous payment in exchange for sparing the city any damage. One half of the payment goes on to Tyrosh, while the remainder will be split two to one between us. As will the valuables we retrieved from the Company of the Cat."

So that had been their name. I suppose I should have suspected it on seeing the cat on their banner, but I thought it might have been symbolic. It was good to have a name to go with our first victory, but I forced myself to focus on the issue certainly nearer and dearer to the hearts of my men: the division of loot.

"That's generous of you," I said. As a practical matter, heavy infantry like my legionnaires weren't well suited for rapidly looting a defeated foe, just as they were not well suited to pursue a routed enemy. In time, if the legion became an army in itself instead of the specialty tool that it was today, I hoped to acquire auxiliaries to address those deficiencies. For now I had to rely on the competence and sense of fairness of strangers.

"It's customary to share incidental gains according to the proportion of men supplied by each company," he said, "though you would do well to negotiate such things before the fighting starts."

I shrugged. "If I couldn't trust you to divide up the gains fairly, I could hardly trust you to report accurately as to what you recovered."

That drew a sharp look. I grinned. I still got a kick out of it every time somebody was shocked at the realization that a barbarian Westerosi might have learned something besides how to kill people. The Tattered Prince slowed to a halt and I followed suit, meeting his gaze evenly. I could hear the sound of soldiers making camp in the distance, but we stood in a little bubble of privacy.

"In Pentos, there is a custom," he said. "When the city loses a battle, or suffers a famine, or loses a fleet... the prince of Pentos is executed."

Westeros had suffered a series of horrors because Aerys was too firmly entrenched in power by tradition for his vassals to even think of rebelling until he began openly threatening-or taking-their lives. Pentos seemed to be rather too far on the other side of the balance. The only comments I could think of were flip, so I held my tongue.

"Of course, its the magisters of Pentos who hold the real power," he continued. "When I was a young man, they chose me as their prince."

"You don't seem the type to be anybody's puppet," I said. He favored me with a thin smile.

"I left the city and ever since I have gathered men and coin to my cause," he said. "Some day I will return to Pentos as her prince in truth and visit the magisters with the justice they are so eager to inflict on others."

I nodded.

"In my experience trust arises from understanding why men pursue the course they have chosen."

I blinked, considering. Why was I on my current path? In a sense, I wanted the same thing as the Tattered Prince: the ability to choose my own destiny. That was hardly an answer, though. His ultimate goal was a luxurious life ruling over a rich landholding. I could have that for the asking from my brother, if not quite on so grand a scale.

There was also, of course, my knowledge of what was to come. My home and my family subjected to civil war, invasion by an army of slaves and dragons, and some kind of zombie uprising. Or the scaled down version that I had shared with Hoster of a possible Targaryen sellsword restoration. Sharing either story with an Essosi sellsword would be rather indiscreet. What's more, I wasn't sure they were true.

It was possible I'd averted that entire future already, after all. If Robert made Cersei the center of his life and fucked her regularly, it was just possible that he could produce a legitimate heir and enjoy a life free from assassination attempts driven by his wife. That would make civil war far less likely. What's more, if Westeros were peaceful and united, would Daenerys still press her invasion? And would the strength of a united realm really need my help to see off a bunch of ice zombies? It was quite possible that I could retire to a quiet life with my wife and live out my time on Westeros in perfect safety.

And yet when I thought about it the idea held no appeal. Every time my mind's eye was interrupted with a vision of that dusty market square in Astapor and the leering grin on the face of the slaver.

"In Braavos, there is an island that is said to hold temples to every religion known to man. There are those who wander that island, seeking divine inspiration," I said. "It is said that those who find favor with R'hllor gain the power to strike down their foes with supernatural strength. That the Faceless Men draw their power from their god. Those who shop for gods like trinkets at the marketplace say that the Seven Who Are One have nothing to offer."

I paused. The Tattered Prince seemed willing to hear me out.

"If you travel to Westeros you will see that such statements are foolish. For you can walk the length and breadth of the Seven Kingdoms and never see a man enslaved," I said. "It is forbidden by the Seven and every man is raised to abhor slavery. I had not thought on the matter much, until I visited Astapor."

"The Unsullied," he said, his voice containing an odd mixture of disgust and grudging respect.

I nodded.

"A city built on slavery and building its slaves into soldiers," I said. "Destroying the city may be beyond me, but I should at least like to destroy the Unsullied where I find them and prove the military superiority of free men."

"A lofty ambition," he said.

I shrugged. "Or maybe I just got a taste for war as a young man and wouldn't know what to do with myself without it."

He smiled but said nothing as he turned to lead the way back to our men. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought the silence between us was more comfortable than it had been before.

ooOoo


	14. Chapter 14

AN: Somewhere off screen the alchemists are about to try tossing dragon's eggs into their breeder reactor...

ooOoo

The four week siege was nothing like any siege Brynden had experienced before. Our armies camped out next to the city but did nothing to obstruct the coming and going of farmers and tradesmen. Hells, we even bought fresh spices from the market we were "besieging" when our own supplies ran short. The only real military problem I faced during that time was keeping my men from going stir crazy, and that was easy enough to solve with the traditional remedy of marching drill and physical training. Even without those efforts my men probably would have been fine, but they were young and impressionable and I didn't want them to think that the laid back habits of the Windblown represented proper soldiering. Instead I hoped to build up their sense of the Sunset Legion as an elite unit with its own set of standards. Keeping the men too tired to grumble was a happy side effect.

One bit of welcome news arrived in a message from Tyrosh several weeks into the siege. They had initially negotiated to retain our services for three months. I had given them the option to extend our contract for a year. Their message notified me that they were exercising the option and expressed interest in increasing their commitment should I secure more men to serve under my banner. The monthly payment for the year long commitment was not nearly as high as what I had secured for each month of the three month contract, but it was still enough to put us on a sound financial footing.

Depending on how much money we could secure from looting and taking cities, we might actually show a profit for our first year of operations. While the men were not particularly invested in the details of the legion's finances, they still cheered the announcement of the contract extension. They welcomed the chance to keep campaigning in the Disputed Lands. They'd experienced their first taste of victory here and the climate was, in Brynden's experience, relatively hospitable for an active army.

Our smith was kept busy during the "siege" hammering the less impressive specimens of captured weaponry into a set of halberd heads. I had settled on the alternate weapon of choice for prying enemies out of our formations. The halberd was the swiss army knife of polearms. The pointed tip allowed it to be used as a spear, the axe blade on the front was obviously useful, and the hook and spike apparatus on the back was dead useful against mounted and armored opponents.

We had between five and ten men in each century trade out their pikes for halberds. I wanted to have enough halberdiers to be useful without having so many that we diluted our basic strength of stabbing people with pikes. Time and experience would help us strike the proper balance. Brynden had enough experience using the halberd as an individual weapon to tutor the legionnaires in the basics.

Four weeks to the day after we had arrived the city surrendered. The city guard brought us an iron-bound chest filled with three thousand golden Myrish honors. This also represented a formal commitment to pay their taxes to Tyrosh until they were "besieged" once more. We split the proceeds two to one, as the Tattered Prince had said, with the Windblown as the larger company holding on to the coins destined for Tyrosh.

The march to the next city was uneventful, as was the following siege. Running a sellsword company was starting to feel like pretty easy work. I knew it couldn't hold-there were only three more cities between us and Myr itself-but the next bout of violence still managed to catch me by surprise.

ooOoo

We were marching in our usual order. The Windblown took the lead. As the senior partners of our little group they had the privilege of marching through clear air rather than a cloud of dust. That privilege was rather hypothetical for anybody not marching in the van, but I'm sure they all treasured it nonetheless. Groups of Windblown scouts ranged out ahead and to the sides, keeping an eye out for trouble. The remainder of their cavalry marched in the van, leaving their foot soldiers to trail behind.

I rode at the head of the Sunset Legion, a fair distance behind the Windblown stragglers. Yes, rode. Marching from place to place and fighting when you get there is a young man's game. And, of course, rank has its privileges. I had secured a mount for myself when we had kitted out the baggage train. It was no great warhorse, but it could plod along at a walking pace all day long. Hey, why walk when you can ride?

Rodrik walked next to me. From time to time we would make conversation, but during a full day of travel there was a lot of time for comfortable silences. The rest of the legion behind us were organized into their centuries, marching ten abreast. They carried their pikes held vertically and wore their travel packs on their backs. With their matching armor and helmets I thought they made for a rather impressive sight. They also seemed to be in decent spirits, judging by the snatches of cadence calls that sometimes came drifting up from the marching body of men.

 _I don't know but I've been told_  
 _Tywin Lannister shits out gold_

I believe I've mentioned that selective deafness can be a valuable skill.

The first sign of trouble was a cry of alarm that carried over the normal sounds of an army at the march. I turned back to see several of the men looking off to the right. Following their gaze up to the summit of one of the Disputed Lands' many low rolling hills, I saw a smudge. The smudge grew broader and taller as I watched. Even before the smudge resolved itself into individual figures I had fished my whistle from beneath my armor and blew a warning note.

Enemy cavalry! Whether through Windblown incompetence, their own skill, or sheer good fortune, the enemy had managed to remain undetected until the very last minute. They were set to charge downhill at us and looked likely to hit the middle of our marching column, perhaps a smidge closer to the rear than the front.

I was gratified once again by my men's quick reaction to the whistle. What had been a somewhat loosely connected column of men quickly separated into ten blocks of one hundred men, and then into ten enormous pincushions as the men on the outside of the formation braced their pikes to receive an enemy charge. This time the order had not been given merely to keep the men together. Their lives could very well depend on their ability to stick together over the next few minutes.

I rode back along the length of the column checking everything over. I certainly didn't see a spot that I would care to charge myself. I looked back at the oncoming cavalry one more time to judge their approach, then picked the square I thought they were most likely to hit.

"Oi! Budge over, your captain's too old to take on that many men at once any more."

That got a few chuckles as the men on the perimeter shuffled to the side to allow me to walk my horse into their protection, then shuffled back into place. The interior of the formation was not exactly roomy, but there was space for the crossbowmen to operate even with me, my horse, and their commander sharing the space. I dismounted and came face to face with the century's commander. It was Petyr Baelish. Our marching order was randomly determined each morning. While Petyr's earlier opportunity to be the first of the legion into combat had been by design, this was sheer chance.

"Nice of you to join us, captain."

"Just have your men ready to stand aside when it's time for the counter charge."

Petyr's expression looked a little more green than amused at the joke. I couldn't blame him. The individual enemy riders were clearly visible now. The sound of their approach had shifted from a rumble you heard with your ears to a rumble you felt in your chest. The enemy formation was easily forty riders wide and had some serious depth to it. It felt more like a natural disaster than a work of man, and standing still in front of it was the very last place anybody would want to be.

"Remember," I said, pitching my voice to carry to the men, "horses won't charge a line of spears. They're smarter than men that way."

Weathering a cavalry charge is all about holding your ground. It's another one of those things that is simple but not easy. When hundreds of riders are bearing down on you like an angry landslide even the bravest of men's guts will turn to water. It was all too easy to give in that fear and run away, hoping to buy your own survival at the cost of breaking ranks with your comrades.

The hedgehog formation was designed to fight that temptation. First of all, it was comforting to be packed in so close together behind a veritable forest of pikes. Second of all, there was simply nowhere to run. Making the easy way out a little more difficult to accomplish helped shore up the men's morale. Even so, it was nervous business.

The oncoming cavalry were close enough now for the crossbowmen to go to work. I could hear the snap and hiss of bolts being loosed, but to no visible effect. Then one of the horses in the front line stumbled and fell, brutally rolling over its rider and tripping up the horse next to it before the formation spread out and flowed around the downed men.

"Aim for the horses!" Petyr called out, and I echoed him, trying to make my voice heard up and down the column. Trying to take down an armored man with a crossbow-and from this distance, I could see that our attackers were heavily armored-was a tricky shot until they were quite close. I had noticed, though, that the local fighters didn't armor their horses to the level of the medieval tanks I recalled seeing illustrated in history books. It was like all things a question of tradeoffs, in this case weight against protection.

The crossbowmen had time for two, sometimes three shots. A few more horses went tumbling, but our attackers still made up a nearly solid mass as they fell upon four of our formations nearly simultaneously.

As I'd expected, the horses refused to voluntarily impale themselves on our pikes. It's funny, the kind of things that can become a technological advantage in warfare. Our attackers were wielding lances that were about twelve feet long, while our men had pikes that were twenty feet long. That simple advantage meant that they could not effectively attack us so long as we held our ground.

Some of the horses shied off to the side, galloping through the corridors formed between centuries. Others simply slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt, creating confusion in their formation as the chain reaction generated a sort of traffic jam. A few of the horses were unable to stop in time. One such unfortunate crashed into Petyr's century, screaming in pain as its own momentum drove several pikes deep into its chest. The rider was trying to extricate himself from the forest of spears that surrounded him when one of Petyr's men stepped forward and used his halberd to pull the man from his saddle. He hit the ground with a great crash of armor. The halberd rose and then fell. The fallen rider's arms twitched once, then went still.

In the mean time, the crossbows had continued to fire. At this distance, they could hardly miss. A fair few bolts deflected harmlessly off armor, but not all. As I watched, a man in front of me reeled backwards and fell out of the saddle as a crossbow bolt speared through his visor.

Unable to press through our spears and unable to turn back, the attacking cavalry edged their way around and through the gaps that some of their comrades had already flowed through, eventually joining back together into a big blob of a formation on the opposite side of the road from where they started. They were harried by crossbow shots the entire way and left more than a few men behind on the open ground. Once they were out of effective crossbow range they milled around, apparently uncertain what to do next.

The Sunset Legion gave a cheer at having weathered the initial storm. I joined them, then laughed as I finally connected the banner I had seen with the name of the company.

"The Long Lances! I've had dinner with their commander."

"I suspect he'd turn down an invitation to lunch," Petyr said, his spirits buoyed by our success.

"He's a boring old drunk anyway."

That got a round of laughter from the men, all of whom looked much more cheerful now that they weren't staring into the face of a cavalry charge. The laughter trailed away to silence while we waited, watching carefully against the enemy's next move.

"What are they thinking, captain?" Petyr asked.

It was a good question. What were they thinking? The Long Lances were a heavy cavalry company. They commanded a premium rate, and with good reason. The kind of charge that they had unleashed on us would have had most foot soldiers running for their lives. A chill ran down my spine as I thought about it.

The Sunset Legion as it was now hadn't been my only option, back when I'd been thinking about starting a sellsword company. Brynden Tully was a name to conjure with in the Riverlands. I could have raised a thousand veterans from the Rebellion and gone into business almost immediately. That army wouldn't have been anything revolutionary, but it would have been perfectly competent. Thinking about what would have happened if that army-if the average levy Brynden had had the honor of leading in the past-had been subjected to the charge we had just experienced... it didn't bear thinking about.

By all rights, a cavalry company coming out of nowhere to sweep down on a marching group of foot soldiers should barely have had to slow down other than to line up killing blows on their victims. Instead, the Long Lances had found themselves charging into a veritable wall of pikes. It had to have been a shocking reversal.

"They're confused," I said, growing more sure as I spoke, "they expected to cut us down like grass but instead they've given themselves a bloody nose and have no good way of getting at us."

"Should we form up and chase them down?"

Well, look at the blood lust on Petyr. I glanced at his face and saw nothing but the pure desire to come to grips with the enemy. Apparently he'd taken some of that generalized anger at the world and turned it into a specific anger at anybody who tried to kill him. Good for him. Good attitude, at least. The tactics could use a little work.

"No, I don't think so," I said, shaking my head. "Best not to take any chances against heavy cavalry."

At that moment a horn sounded out as the Windblown cavalry finally made themselves known. I didn't begrudge them the wait. They had started a fair distance away, and it was perfectly reasonable for the Tattered Prince to wait to see how the initial charge fared before committing himself. It was also perfectly satisfying to watch now as the Long Lances finished losing their nerve and fled before the approaching Windblown. They were retreating in fairly good order, but I doubted they'd be troubling us again today. The only task left for us now was looting the bodies.

"Besides," I added, "it's not our job to chase down the defeated enemy."

ooOoo


	15. Chapter 15

AN: Could dragon flame be used to power a steam generator to run a mechanical dragon? The Alchemists' Guild would know.

ooOoo

Pulling armor off of a dead body is a macabre task. It is made a little easier, though, by the thought that the armor will soon be turned into cash and the cash redistributed among friends. I did my best to supervise the looting diligently. Tempting though it might be to turn a blind eye as my men pocketed particularly choice bits of swag, I didn't want to develop a reputation for short changing my allies. Besides which, we would far more often be dependent on the honesty of the Windblown in looting than they would be on ours, so it behooved us to try and make sure everything stayed on the up and up.

The lion's share of the loot came in the form of the armor and weapons of the twenty or thirty fallen lancers. Full plate mail cost a pretty penny, and most of the lancers had had well made swords as their backup weapon in addition to their lances. A fair few of them had coin purses on their bodies as well. I was a little surprised at the skill some of my men were showing in ferreting valuables off of dead bodies, but I didn't make an issue of it. Any skill put in service to the betterment of the legion was a noble one in my book.

The fallen horses added their share of valuables to the pile as well. The saddlebags were largely filled with provisions but also contained a few worthwhile knick-knacks, while the saddles themselves were reasonably valuable. We could have butchered them for the meat but I didn't judge the savings to be worth the hit to morale. All in all it made for a nice little pile of loot to pack into our supply wagons.

By the time we had everything ready to go the sun was already low in the sky. We only wound up moving on far enough so that we didn't have to camp on the battlefield itself before we called it a day. After dinner, the Tattered Prince paid me the honor of visiting me in my command tent while my officers were busy compiling their after action reports. He didn't waste time getting down to business.

"The Long Lances hid beyond a hill just outside of my scouts' range," he said, scowling. "I will be investigating whether their failure was a result of incompetence or corruption."

It was quite possible that they had just honestly been outsmarted. The Long Lances could have observed or intuited the Windblown scouts' habits before picking their hiding places. It often seemed to me that the people here were too quick to attribute all of their misfortunes to overly complicated conspiracies. Of course, I thought they also seemed too quick to form overly complicated conspiracies, so maybe it evened out. In any event, I didn't feel any particularly strong urge to speak up on behalf of the man whose mistake had subjected my men to a surprise cavalry charge.

I wasn't particularly worried that the Tattered Prince himself had betrayed me. A mercenary company traded on its good name. Betraying those who fought by your side had a tendency to dry up future contracts. I didn't expect him to be loyal in the sense that Brynden usually expected out of his comrades at arms-that is, willing to stand and fight together to the bitter end-but I was fairly sure I could predict when he would leave me in the lurch. As long as I didn't expect any heroic last stands out of his sellsword company I shouldn't be disappointed.

"And the Long Lances?"

"Held together on retreat," the Tattered Prince said, "all the way to their allies' camp, directly ahead on our line of march. I suspect if their attack had gone off as planned they would have returned with friends."

"How many friends?"

"It's hard to be sure. All told, I'd say they're roughly twice our combined number. Perhaps a bit less."

I paused for a minute, considering. There would probably never be a better time to press the attack than now. The Long Lances were still stinging from their failed ambush, and might be half-ready to take to their heels once more if pushed. Also, there was no telling what kind of reinforcements might show up for the other side if we waited.

"I'm half minded to press the attack," I said. "Keep up our momentum."

"Your men were impressive on the charge and did a good job fending off the Long Lances," the Tattered Prince said, "but I suspect you might have trouble with a cavalry charge from the flanks while you make your forward push."

"You expect that would happen?"

"The Long Lances alone give them more heavy cavalry than I have cavalry," he replied. "My men are skilled, but..."

"Sometimes quantity has a quality all its own."

"Just so."

Not to mention the massive numbers disparity when it came to the infantry. It wouldn't do us much good to push through a segment of the enemy formation if at the same time they swept the Windblown from the field under sheer weight of numbers before enveloping our whole legion.

"We dig in, then?" I asked.

The Tattered Prince nodded. "Thanks to our efforts Tyrosh has more money coming in than they've had in years. If they want to fund another push they can send us some reinforcements."

As it turned out, Tyrosh seemed content with the status quo. So, too, did our enemies. We didn't know that latter piece of information at first, of course, which made for a pretty exciting week of finding the most defensible ground that we could and throwing up barriers while keeping an ear out for our scouts' warning cries. Once we were settled in, though, the days began to pass with no activity besides the cut and thrust of opposing outriders trying to outwit each other.

It made sense on reflection. We did not want to engage them on terrain of their choosing where their superior quantity would make the difference. They didn't want to engage us on terrain of our choosing where our superior troops would win the day. The Windblown had a reputation on top of their recent victories, and the Long Lances had recent personal experience with the fortitude of the Sunset Legion. If a war were hanging in the balance perhaps they would have tried to force their way through and make their own names at the expense of the Tattered Prince and Brynden Tully, but as it was they were content to sit and wait. There was just not enough profit to justify an attack for either side of our little standoff.

We gradually fell into a routine. With the threat of imminent attack fading away it became much like the sieges we had just finished conducting, a challenge of keeping the men fit and ready for action without wearing down morale. I wasn't exactly thrilled with the situation. Getting paid to do nothing was hardly the worst thing in the world, but I'd been hoping to get my men a strong dose of combat experience. On the other hand, becoming acquainted with the "hurry-up-and-wait" side of military life was an inevitable part of the process of turning rookies into veterans. The only real events of note took place via correspondence.

One of Walder's sources sent him a missive with two pieces of news: the Queen was pregnant, and it had been announced that once she had recovered from giving birth, the court would be hitting the road. Robert intended to reign for a year from the Reach. His exact schedule would no doubt be determined through some combination of Jon Arryn's careful planning and Robert's whims. From a certain point of view, I suppose that was how all of the business of the realm was handled.

My first real change to the timeline. Maybe two changes, even. I didn't remember exactly when Joffrey had been born originally and there was a chance that this time Cersei's firstborn would actually be Robert's child. I could only hope. I also, at this point, could only hope that my advice had put Robert on the path towards being a good king. Well, a less shitty king. Or at least a king who was shitty in a less destructive way. It would be interesting to see how things went. While some people found Robert off-putting-mostly the people that he ribbed mercilessly for being "prissy" or "boring"-he still had that undeniable animal magnetism. Being out and about in the realm doing personal diplomacy just might help him out even above and beyond any effect on his own happiness.

In more personal happy news I received a letter from my wife informing me that she had given birth to a healthy baby boy. Tytos, my firstborn son. I had brought a child into this world. This crapsack of a world.

I felt a little bit distanced from the news. Some of it was probably from hearing about my son in a letter rather than holding him in my arms. Some of it came from Brynden's instincts: while it was important for a Westerosi noble to have sons to continue on his family name, most fathers didn't interact much with their sons until it was time for the local equivalent of teaching them how to throw a baseball, that being teaching them how to hunt and how to fight. I also had the sense that fatherhood would not be a brand new experience after having been so involved in the raising of Catelyn, Lysa, Edmure, and Petyr. Well, we'll see how I felt once I saw the kid.

This was the kind of thing that really brought home what an alien world this was. My kid was born and instead of seeing a video of him that very day I would have to take a multi-week sea voyage to get a glimpse of him. Walder had to exert a not-insignificant level of effort and expend a not-insignificant amount of coin to keep me "only" as out of touch as a man who got his news through month old newspapers.

As time passed and the stalemate in the Disputed Lands continued, I gradually felt more and more of an itch to get out and do something productive. I also gradually felt more and more comfortable leaving Rodrik in command of the legion in the field. He had maintained his easy going nature as we moved out on campaign and had shown himself to be level headed in combat. He was still a little too green to be handed over control of an entire campaign, but I thought he could be trusted to hold a position while I was away for a few months.

It didn't seem likely that he would be pushed very hard to stay in place, either. As the months went by and the prospect of combat became more and more remote we had even seen camp followers starting to set up near our little defensive base. You didn't often see that kind of thing in an active combat zone but then this was hardly an active combat zone at the moment. I was hardly going to object to anything that would improve morale, though I did make Petyr responsible for preventing any outbreaks of the pox.

I had Legion business to take care of that I couldn't manage from the Disputed Lands. Tyrosh had indicated that they were interested in hiring as many heavy infantry as I could provide, but the men weren't just going to train themselves. I also had family business that I couldn't handle by letter. Hoster deserved a visit, both to celebrate the birth of his nephew and for a report on what all his adventurous Riverlanders were up to in Essos. I wanted to see my son in person, and after months away I had a definite need to see my wife.

The problem with handing somebody a new level of responsibility is that you can't be certain what they'll do with it until they have it. In the long term, though, I would have to rely on other people carrying out critical tasks at some point. That had to start somewhere. And so it was with just the slightest trepidation that I handed field command over to Rodrik Lolliston and set sail to Riverrun along with Walder Frey.

ooOoo


	16. Chapter 16

AN: Now I just need to remember the formula for anti-freeze so I can take my mecha dragon up to the Other's hideaways.

ooOoo

Another triumphant return home, another feast thrown in my honor. I'd say I was getting tired of it, but that would be a lie. After spending months with an army on the march it was a blessed luxury to get to sit back and enjoy food intended to delight the palette of a Lord Paramount rather than serve as simple hearty fare for young men. Being the center of attention was always fun, and I didn't even have to endure an evening of good-natured teasing this time. I'd obviously been spending the last year alternating between nailing my wife and winning a war, so nobody was going to out-macho me. Instead I was able to hold forth about fighting in the Disputed Lands and tell tales about the Tattered Prince.

It was a grand old time, but I could always count on my brother to bring me back down to earth. He summoned me to his solar after lunch the next day, handing me a glass of well-watered Arbor Red as I walked in.

"To one more Tully in the world," Hoster said, holding up his glass. He had made a full recovery from the injuries he had suffered during the rebellion and was once more the hale and hearty perfect picture of a Lord Paramount that I had known for most of my adult life.

"I'll drink to that," I replied, tapping my glass lightly against his before taking a sip. It was perhaps a little sweeter than I preferred, but damn good nonetheless.

"I'd rather my nephew weren't younger than my grandchild," he said, "but I suppose you can't have everything."

I held my tongue. Hoster was in general a good person. He was generous with his family and diligent in executing his duties. He was also constitutionally incapable of letting little things go. It wasn't enough for matters to eventually go his way in the end, he always had to pick away at you and remind you that you had let him down. He generally stopped short of outright malicious behavior, but it was damned annoying. Fortunately I had inherited over forty-odd years of living with Hoster when I arrived in this world, so I was able to let his comment roll off my back instead of replying.

Hoster gave me a challenging look, almost daring me to say something. It occurred to me that if he weren't a Lord Paramount he would get punched in the face a lot more often-and that it might have been good for him. Then the moment passed and his expression turned contemplative.

"Have you given a thought as to where you will foster the boy? I assume you don't want him growing up Braavosi."

My initial instinct was to tell him to piss off and let me worry about my own family, but I bit that back. No need to start a fight when he was genuinely trying to be helpful. Also, say what you will about his parenting skills, he had done well by his children politically. It's a rare man whose grandchildren will occupy three different Lord Paramountships.

I was also a little bit thrown because of all the things to carry over from the modern world to Westeros, I wasn't expecting the Tiger Mom phenomenon. I'd heard the stories back home about the parents who signed up for pre-school waiting lists as soon as the pregnancy tests came back positive. Apparently while young Tytos would be able to live his life without having to worry about pleasing any admissions committees, being born into the aristocracy came with expectations of its own.

"Providing him with appropriate tutors should help tie him to his ancestral lands," I said, "although to be honest I did not plan to put much thought into such things until he's off his mother's teat."

Maybe I didn't entirely repress that instinct to tell him to piss off after all.

"Rare is the plan that is improved by dithering," Hoster said, adopting a lecturing tone. "Doors are open to you now that might close if you disdain to walk through them."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to massage away the impending headache. "If you're going to insist on having this conversation I either need stronger wine or fewer riddles."

Hoster seemed amused as he set down his wine and steepled his fingers together. "Judging by what I saw at the Royal Wedding the queen and your lady wife were well on their way to becoming fast friends."

"I doubt that," I said, snorting. "Darla has turned into quite the social butterfly since leaving Raventree Hall, but our queen is hardly the type to make friends who outshine her in appearance."

True story: Cersei Lannister is the girl at the club who keeps a carefully curated array of friends who were all just slightly less attractive than her so that she would look better when hanging out with the group. She is also, thanks to medieval law and custom and the horrifying whims of fate, fifteen years or so away from wielding executive power over a continent if I don't change things. No pressure or anything.

Hoster's smile only broadened as he continued. "Be that as it may, I've just received word by raven that the queen has given birth to a healthy baby boy.

"A prince?"

Hoster nodded. "Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name."

Okay, deep breaths. It was too much to hope for to think that they would choose to name the prince something different. I'd have to rely on Catelyn to name one of her kids after good old Uncle Blackfish. As long as this Joffrey wasn't some kind of incestuous demon child the realm would still be all right. It would probably be a little weird to ask about his hair color right now. I would just have to wait and see.

"There are many advantages to being a prince's childhood playmate," Hoster continued, apparently taking my silence as lack of comprehension of his plan.

I wrenched my train of thought from questions of high politics to the matter of my own family. Was Hoster suggesting that I could get Tytos fostered by the king? On the one hand, that would be pretty cool. Being close to the royal family was the ultimate in social currency, and it didn't get much closer than a fostering arrangement. On the other hand, it meant that my son would be raised by Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. If they weren't the worst role models in the country it was at least a close run contest.

It also would create an instant hostage in the event that everything went to shit. More than that, it would essentially pre-commit me to a side in the event of civil war. I was doing my best to avert the civil war as predicted in the book, but there were still plenty of other things that could go wrong. I would probably want to side with Joffrey if he was actually Robert's kid-or, hells, even if he turned out to be an incest baby, I'd probably support him as long as he wasn't also a psychopath-but I was reluctant to give up the independence and flexibility that I had by virtue of leading my own army with my family living overseas.

"I've lived a long and happy life by avoiding court politics."

Setting up my son to be best friends with the prince would also blow up my efforts to stay under the radar of the various factions at court. Even making the effort would raise my profile more than I was really comfortable with.

"Things change once you have children," Hoster said. "You have to think of their future, not just your desires."

Hoster's pitch would be more compelling if I didn't have vivid memories of single-handedly maintaining his own children's emotional health. He had secured good marriages for his daughters but if they weren't total emotional basket cases it wasn't thanks to anything he had done.

"Is it really best for his future to throw my son into that pit of vipers on his eighth name day?"

Hoster shrugged. "All of us in this world have to learn how to deal with politics at some point. More to the point, I'm hardly the only one to see the advantages in such a thing. If you wait to pursue the opportunity, somebody else may snatch it first."

I sighed. "I will think on what you've said."

I took another sip of my wine, then continued. "To be honest, I would have thought you'd be too busy securing a bride for Edmure to worry about my son."

Now it was Hoster's turn to sigh. "Finding an appropriate match has proven more challenging than I had hoped."

"Really?"

Hoster had never seemed at a loss for potential brides when it came to me. I suppose he might be a little pickier when it came to his son. I'd be offended, but hey, I'd played my fair share of CKII and I always put a lot more effort in pairing up the main line with the ideal match.

"Catelyn and Lysa secured us strong alliances," Hoster said, "I thought to use Edmure's wedding to strengthen internal ties. Unfortunately, none of our strongest vassals have girls at the right age."

"The Freys must have somebody," I said. "I could ask Walder if there's anybody he'd recommend."

"You would speak to Walder Frey? Of your own free will?"

I was a little taken aback by the incredulity on Holder's face before things clicked.

"Not that Walder. My assistant, Walder."

"Ah, yes," Hoster said, taking a sip of wine, "I'd forgotten you'd taken a Frey under your wing. Fat Walder, was it?"

"I don't think so. He's not fat, anyway."

"So not Skinny Walder either. Surely he's not Black Walder?"

"No, no," I said, shaking my head as I tried to recall an old conversation. "He told me once he's seventeenth in line to inherit the Twins."

"Quiet Walder, then."

"I suppose," I said, then tried to bring our discussion back on point. "He's a good kid. I'm sure he can suggest some cousin or half-sibling that would be a good match for Edmure."

Walder was a little busy right at that moment setting up an information collecting network in Riverrun. I'd given him stricter than usual instructions about keeping a low profile and not prying into any sensitive secrets. The last thing I needed was for my brother to think that I was trying to undermine him. All I wanted was to be aware of any news that Hoster was too busy to send to me. In any event, I was sure Walder could spare the time to give me a quick rundown on his unmarried female relatives.

Hoster shook his head, frowning as though he had smelled something distasteful. "I hardly want to reward the Late Lord Frey by marrying Edmure to one of his brood."

And there was Hoster's penchant for picking away at people coming to the fore. It was less directly irritating when it wasn't being directed at me personally but it felt more ominous when I knew that years of needling Walder Frey would fuel the kind of resentment that would lead to the Red Wedding. I could probably head off that disaster when the time came but it seemed better to try and keep that relationship from turning quite so poisonous to begin with.

"You know," I said, swirling the wine in my glass and watching the light play off the cut crystal, "they have a saying in Braavos: never do an enemy a small injury."

I had taken the time, when I had some to spare, to try and reproduce some of the classics that I thought could be applicable to my new station in life: The Prince, The Melian Dialogues, The Art of War. Unfortunately I couldn't remember much beyond the high points: "the strong do what they will while the weak suffer what they must," "know yourself and know your enemy and you will win a thousand battles," that kind of thing. I'd tried to stitch them together into coherent thoughts and wound up with a hundred handwritten pages that were as much my own speculation as they were verbatim quotes. My half-formed plans to be hailed as a genius on borrowed wits didn't really work out, but I could still drop the occasional not-yet-overused quote into conversation to make myself sound smart.

"You think I'm being unfair to my vassal?" Hoster asked, taking on that slightly pissy tone that he usually did when he thought I was questioning his competence.

"Fuck fairness!" I said, draining my wineglass and setting it down with some force behind it. "Execute the old shit for his delay and send the whole family to the Wall for all I care. But if you leave Walder Frey in a position of power and heap petty slights upon him, he's exactly the kind of snake who will brood on it until the moment arrives when he can fuck you over."

"I hardly need to fear a jumped up merchant family."

"He doesn't need to match your strength to fuck you over," I said, then sighed. "Look, what would happen if Robert went out hunting tomorrow, fell off his horse, and broke his neck?"

Hoster's eyes narrowed. "Tread carefully, brother."

"It's not me that changed the world," I said. "Aegon won his crown with dragons, and so we had peaceful successions so long as no pretender had dragons. Robert won his crown with an army."

"Is that why you sought to raise an army of your own?"

"I'm still about 40,000 short of the host Robert had at the Trident," I said, shaking my head. "Robert changed the rules and won, and we won with him. I don't want somebody thinking they can run it back and try again. And if they do I don't want them to bring the war to the Riverlands."

Hoster picked up his wine glass and took a heavy drink from it. He was silent for a long moment before heaving a great sigh.

"You are right that to support a young dynasty won through strength of arms we must ourselves be strong and unified," Hoster said, "but gods does it grieve me to think of welcoming Walder buggering Frey to our family."

"If you want to go the other way, I'll lead the host up the Green Fork myself," I said. "Though there is this to consider: should Lord Frey prove tardy once more, it could prove useful for Edmure's children to have a claim on the Twins, however distant."

All according to the other piece of "Braavosi wisdom" I was saving for a rainy day: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

ooOoo


	17. Chapter 17

AN: Crap! I thought my mecha dragon was unbeatable but the Others have a giant mechanical St. George!

ooOoo

Fortunately, I did not have to impose on my brother's hospitality for too long. I had sent letters ahead of time to the young men who had expressed interest in joining the Sunset Legion in the past, and twelve of them made the journey down to Riverrun to meet with me. I gave them each their initial allocations of silver stags to be paid out to new recruits, confirmed the schedule that we would all be operating on, made sure that Walder was done with his work, and then hit the road.

A brief note on managing logistics in a medieval environment: it sucks. I'm old enough to remember taking ski trips before everybody owned cell phones, when instead of texting or calling to arrange lunch on the fly everybody would have to pre-commit to meet at a particular place at a particular time so we would be together for our meal. Scheduling anything in Westeros was like that, but more so. I had to allow for the longest possible travel and recruiting time faced by any of my new lieutenants in gathering one hundred new people together and getting them to Saltpans. And a margin for error. Then we all had to agree to meet on that particular date. Later, I would arrange for shipping capable of moving twelve hundred people to be in place as well.

Instead of impromptu meetings where people knew each other's schedules to the minute, it was a meticulously planned operation where things were going well if everybody arrived at the right place by the right day. Sadly, since I had not yet spontaneously developed the ability to shit iPhones, it wasn't like I had a choice.

Walder and I split up once our new batch of lieutenants was on their way. He traveled to our training camp to start getting the place ready for new arrivals. I'd be there when they started showing up but in the mean time I would be able to spend a few weeks with my wife in Braavos.

Rank has its privileges, after all.

ooOoo

Tytos was the world's cutest baby. I say that as a not entirely objective observer, I suppose, but I would lay odds the kid's going to grow up to be a lady killer. He's got a little tuft of red hair to go along with what looked like the Tully facial structure combined with his mother's delicate features.

He was also endlessly fascinated by grabbing at my fingers. I was happy to move them in and out of his reach for his amusement while Darla looked on fondly. It was hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I had made another human being. I thought I had known what fatherly pride felt like when I thought about Cat and Lysa but it paled next to the fierce protectiveness that shot through me when I saw this little bundle of blankets.

After a good long game of grab-the-finger Tytos finally started fussing. The wet nurse carried him away, leaving my wife and I alone. I was looking at Darla with what I suspected was a goofy grin on my face.

"He has a strong grip."

She smiled back at me. "He'll grow up to be a strong man, like his father."

I cleared my throat and shook my head, trying to focus past the warm fuzzy feelings.

"We'll have to foster him," I said. "We don't want him thinking of Braavos as his only home."

Darla nodded, and I continued.

"Hoster has it in his head that you're friends with the Queen."

She started, a guilty expression crossing her face as she glanced to the side. I followed her gaze and saw a writing desk, complete with a neat pile of correspondence stacked on top of it. A small shock of betrayal rolled through me, though I tried not to let it come out in my voice.

"You've been writing to her?"

"She wrote me such a kind thank you note after the wedding, then I wrote back and, well, she tells so many interesting stories about the court and she seems to enjoy reading about Braavos..." Darla said, then, finding her courage, looked me in the eyes. "I would have told you if you weren't off fighting in that pointless war."

"Don't make excuses," I said, putting a bit of a growl into my voice. She looked down, apparently repentent.

In truth, it wasn't the worst possible secret rebellion. Far better a female pen pal than a male lover. Still, striking up a friendship with the queen could drag the both of us into court politics and wasn't the sort of thing she should be doing without my approval, let alone behind my back. It made me wonder what else she had been up to here in Braavos.

Now that Darla had borne me a male heir I'd be well within the bounds of propriety to ship her back to Raventree Hall and pay a stipend to her family for keeping her in house and home. She'd still get her pin money but it would be a lot less fun spending it in the backwaters of the Riverlands rather than the markets of Braavos. It would also greatly reduce her ability to cause me any headaches.

"Have you made any other friends back in Westeros? Any promises here in Braavos in my name?"

Something of what I was thinking must have come through in my tone of voice, as Darla's feigned repentence melted into real submission tinged with panic.

"No, no! Just the Queen."

I sighed. It was an innocent enough mistake, and Darla was quite young. It was easy to get swept up in the excitement of royal attention and act without thinking of the dangers involved.

"You may continue writing to her on your own account. Hoster had the idea that we might foster Tytos with the royal family when the time comes," I said, holding up my hand to forestall comment, "which I will consider approving if the Queen brings it up herself. We will not go begging for royal favors."

"I understand."

"Good," I said, reaching out and tugging Darla into a comforting embrace. She melted against me, shaking a bit as her emotions got the better of her. "I have half a mind to foster him with Cat up in Winterfell regardless. Court life is no place for a young boy."

Darla nodded but didn't say anything. I ran my hand down her back in a soothing motion that in Brynden's experience worked equally well with skittish animals and young women.

"What did you get her for a wedding gift, anyways?" I asked. I remembered she had been secretive about the whole thing.

She leaned back and smiled at me. "Remember the red silk nightdress?"

I nodded. That was the one time I had approached that particular topic with more experience than Brynden, as Westeros didn't really offer much by way of negligees.

"I bought her one in green."

You're welcome, Robert. I let my smile grow a bit more suggestive. "Whatever happened to yours?"

"You tore it off me, remember?"

Now that she mentioned it, I did. We shared a grin at the happy memory. "You should see about getting it repaired."

"Why bother?" she asked, pulling away and turning to walk into the bedroom. "I won't be wearing anything so conservative tonight."

"Are you sure we have to go to this party tonight?" I called after her.

Hoster had suggested rather strongly that I put some effort into meeting some of the better sort of Braavosi. Apparently Jon Arryn was trying to bring our kingdom and the Free City closer together, and Hoster had had the ridiculous idea that I might help out with his diplomatic efforts. It also just so happened that Magister Golatas was throwing a party the very night of my arrival. According to Darla I had already prevented her from attending one of Magister Golatas's get-togethers, so it was only fair that I attend this one. Golatas was also fairly well connected within Braavos, so it would behoove me to get on his good side.

Of course, we could always come up with some kind of excuse to miss out, just this once.

"Dessert tastes all the sweeter when you have a hearty meal beforehand."

Or I could do my duty to king and country.

ooOoo

And so, on my brother's advice and my wife's insistence, I finally made my introduction to Braavosi high society. We arrived at Magister Golatas's house fashionably late, a half hour or so after the party was set to begin. We were met at the door by the host himself along with his wife. They both greeted Darla like an old friend, launching into a spirited conversation that took place, somewhat to my surprise, entirely in the Braavosi dialect of low Valyrian. I'd been working on learning the language and considered myself to be doing well to pick out nine words out of ten, but Darla chattered along like a native. I suppose she'd had more incentive to learn.

Eventually they finished their greeting and it was time to introduce me. I smiled just a little bit as I caught the magister's wife checking me out. I was wearing a red doublet decorated with my personal crest, a stark departure from the muted colors favored by proper Braavosi. Perfectly proper attire for any kind of get together back in the Riverlands, but here the obvious mark of an outsider. Dark blue hose and a dagger at my belt-I'd left my sword at home as a courtesy to our hosts-completed the image of a barbarian warrior.

The barbarian image was most effective when paired with unexpected social graces. I was the very picture of courtesy as I took Onesta Golatas's hand and bent over to just barely brush my lips over the back of her palm, before letting her go and turning to shake Magister Golatas's hand. I met his gaze evenly and drew on Brynden's experience to give him a precisely calibrated nod designed to communicate the message: yes, I could probably fuck your wife but out of respect for you and your home I will not make the attempt today.

I could only hope that the basic meaning would translate across cultures. The magister didn't immediately kick me out, which I counted as a win. With the initial introduction over Onesta led Darla away while the magister walked me down the hall.

The basic structure of dinner parties was consistent in Westeros, Braavos, and as far as I knew across all of time and space. First, the guests stand around and chat while drinking and eating snacks. Then, everybody sits down for dinner and drinks while talking to people around them. Finally, there's some kind of musical entertainment and, of course, more drinking. Depending on just how much drinking has occurred there may also be dancing.

One difference from what I was used to was that the initial mingling period was sex-segregated. The women were all gathered in an enclosed fifth floor balcony that offered spectacular views of Braavos at night. The men congregated in a trophy room of sorts that was attached to the balcony. Some of the younger men were hanging out by the door that connected the two, no doubt intent on enjoying the view.

I didn't have much of a chance to look around, as the magister led me to a corner of the room where a large man was staring morosely at a map of Westeros that had been pinned to the wall. The magister introduced us and excused himself to head back to the door. He did it all so smoothly that he was out of earshot before I realized that I was alone in a secluded spot with Ser Willem Darry.

I didn't recognize the name from my own earlier memories, but Brynden knew the Darry family to be fanatical Targaryen loyalists. They had all rallied to fight against Hoster, their liege lord, during the rebellion. Many of them had died, including Willem's brother Jonothor, a member of the Kingsguard. Willem had gone missing after the war, his whereabouts a mystery. Until now.

I didn't really care. Robert had proven unenthusiastic about chasing down vanquished foes once he secured his throne, other than the young Targaryens. To the best of my knowledge those two were down in Pentos, which I was making a point to avoid. Other loyalists were free to kick around the world doing whatever they wanted, so long as it didn't involve stirring up trouble back home. Despite that, I still felt a brief flash of anger at seeing a man who had sworn himself to serve my brother before taking up arms against him, but I could overlook it.

"I suppose he thinks all of us barbarians get along," I said in the common tongue, trying to establish a calm tone for level-headed communication.

"I didn't know there would be traitors in this house tonight," Willem spat out.

Well, so much for polite conversation. Taking insults from this fucking forsworn loser was certainly not part of my plans for tonight. With an effort, I forced down my instinctive reaction. I couldn't just up and stab him. Not yet.

"You speak to me of treason? You must be joking."

He hawked up a loogie and spat it out deliberately at my feet.

"Only a Tully makes a joke of honor."

All right, it was on. A sort of red mist had descended on my vision and I was ready to launch into this jackass. I just managed to hold myself back, dimly aware that it would be better for me if he threw the first punch.

"Tell me: is it true that your brother taught Rhaeger the ways of boy-buggery? The Prince seemed most grieved when Jonothor was cut down like the dog he was on the banks of the Trident."

Ser Willem stood half a head taller than me. He was a bit broader across the shoulders, but also well older. He wasn't wearing a visible weapon, which meant that he had a knife tucked away in hiding somewhere. I figured that in the time it would take for him to draw it I could have mine out and ready to go. He caught me by surprise when he instead lunged forward with a roar and wrapped me in a bear hug.

There was no knightly wrestling technique at play here. Only crushing pressure as he tried to subdue me with the strength of his arms alone. With my own arms pinned to my body I had no way to draw my knife. I could feel my ribs creak and smell the sour alcohol on his breath as he slurred out some threat or another and redoubled his efforts to squeeze me to death. Then I leaned back as far as I could and slammed my head forward, driving my forehead into his face.

I heard a wet snapping noise as he cried out, releasing me with his right arm and reeling a half step backwards. I balled up my left fist and hooked a punch into his short ribs as hard as I could. Then another. After the third he let go of me entirely, taking another step back. He gathered himself and threw a long looping punch at my head with his right hand, raising his left arm to shield his own face.

In the mean time, I drew my dagger from its spot on my belt and drove it into his side. The shock of it made him pull his punch in short so that his knuckle only scraped along my forehead instead of crashing into my temple. I grabbed him with my left hand and stepped in close, drawing the dagger out and stabbing it in again, this time striking low in his side with the blade angled upward and pushing until the foot long blade was buried to the hilt. I gave it a couple good stirring motions before I stepped back, withdrawing my dagger as I did.

Ser Willem stood there in a daze, staring at me without comprehension as his hands automatically moved to staunch the wound at his side. It was pointless, of course. The internal bleeding would see him dead before the night was over. Still, there was one more thing to do.

Wrapping my fist firmly around the hilt of the dagger in my hand, I drew back and sent a straight right crashing into his already abused nose. He took two steps back then fell to the floor. He wouldn't be standing up again.

"Oh no oh no oh no..."

As the killing haze started to fade from my mind I became aware that I had an audience. Turning, I saw that Magister Golatas had pushed to the front of the crowd. It was his fretting that had drawn my attention. He was holding a white handkerchief out as a sort of offering. I don't know what he intended to accomplish with it, but I could certainly use it.

"I knew he was looking for sellswords so I thought..."

I ignored his babbling as I took the handkerchief from his hand and used it to mop my forehead. Taking a glance at it I saw less blood than I expected mixed in with the sweat. I then used it to clean the blood off of my knife, dropping the soiled handkerchief to the floor as I sheathed my weapon.

"...a man dead on my new carpet..."

I paid no mind to the ongoing stream of words as I surveyed the crowd. The adrenalin was still flowing through my system, my heart was still pounding, and... there she was. Darla was with a group of women who had gathered to the side of the watching men, and had seen a good portion of the fight. Her face was flushed and she was definitely giving me the bedroom eyes. Excellent.

I pulled a gold dragon from my pocket and tossed it to the magister without looking in his direction.

"Sorry about the mess."

I didn't hear anything anybody said as I strode towards my wife. The crowd melted out of my way like magic, and I hardly slowed down as I took her by the waist and took her out a side door. The door turned out to lead onto a small open-air balcony facing the Titan that guarded the city. I hardly paused to admire the view, growling something incoherent before I shoved Darla forward until she was bent over the balcony rail. I did just have the presence of mind to kick the door shut behind me before I went to work with my other dagger.

ooOoo


	18. Chapter 18

AN: Wildfire will make a steam engine more efficient, right?

ooOoo

I slept in late the next morning. I felt that I'd earned it. I came half awake as the bed shifted with the motion of Darla waking up and starting her day, but I steadfastly refused to come back to full consciousness and soon drifted back to sleep. I was woken some time later by the feeling of damp pressure on my forehead.

I blinked awake to find my vision filled with a pale, slender wrist. Looking over I saw Darla seated by the bed, wrapped in a green nightgown, her tongue stuck out in concentration as she leaned toward me. As I watched, she wrung out the washcloth in her hand before re-soaking it in the bucket of warm water next to her and continuing to dab away at my forehead with short, gentle strokes.

I smiled at her as I did my own self inventory from last night's excitement. There was some pleasant soreness, of course. There were also some less pleasant aches and pains as a result of my tussle with Willem Darry. I tried rolling my right shoulder and felt a warning twinge. I could probably force the full range of motion, but I got the feeling it would be a bad idea right now. I had also somehow picked up a real humdinger of a bruise on my upper thigh. Darry must have gotten a hit in there that I hadn't registered during the fight.

I was also feeling some aches throughout my body that I couldn't pin down to one specific cause but more to an overall sense that I was too old to be getting into random brawls. If anybody should be roaming up and down Essos picking fights and headbutting people it was Robert Baratheon.

Darla finished cleaning my forehead and frowned as she looked at the results of her work. "I think we should have a maester take a look at this."

"It feels fine," I said. There was a little bit of soreness that was only to be expected after headbutting somebody, but I didn't feel any sharp or shooting pain. "Is any of the skin around the cut discolored?"

She stood and leaned forward, intently examining my forehead. Her robe, which had only been loosely wrapped around her body, fell open. I had already been experiencing the natural reaction from having a beautiful young woman fuss over me in bed. I reached around her back and pulled her close.

...

Afterwards, I lay back in a comfortable haze, my wife curled up by my side. It took a while for my mind to return its focus to more mundane pursuits.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a maester make sure the cut doesn't go bad."

"All right," Darla said, though she made no move to get up. We lay there for a time before she broke the comfortable silence. "Who was that old man?"

"Ser Willem Darry."

I felt her tense up beside me, although she didn't say anything. She would recognize the name. The Darry family was prominent in the Riverlands. Not so prominent as they were before the rebellion, of course.

"I squired for his uncle, you know," I continued. "I thought I really knew the whole family. Then they chose the Targaryens over us."

"Did you meet Ser Willem on the battlefield? Was he trying to take some kind of revenge?"

I laughed. "Perhaps I should pay a bard to write a song that tells the story that way. No, he said some things about my family so I said some things about his family. He attacked me and... well, you saw the rest."

I rested a hand possessively on her back. "The truth is, men start fights over some petty foolishness far more often than out of some grand plan for revenge."

ooOoo

Once we managed to drag ourselves out of bed and get cleaned up, Darla insisted on taking me on a tour of the city. I didn't require much persuasion. In my previous trips I had always been focused on accomplishing one goal or another, so I hadn't had much of a chance to wander around. I was happy to have the excuse to play tourist.

Braavos is a city scattered across a hundred islands all hidden away in a secluded lagoon. Every inch of available space was paved and crowded with stone buildings, often four or five stories tall. The Braavosi seemed to favor decorative stonework in public spaces, and statuary was threaded throughout most buildings and even dotted the public roads. Many islands called for many bridges, ranging from creaky rope and wood contraptions to solid stone arches, but the easiest way to get around was by boat.

It would have been incredibly romantic if not for the ever present fog. Darla and I both wore heavy cloaks to ward against the chill. She had secured the services of a punt to ferry us around town for the day. The boat was painted in a riot of colors but the man hired to push us from place to place was thankfully a rather quiet chap. One modern invention I had no intention of bringing to this world was the singing gondolier.

Darla and I sat together in silence, leaning up against each other and watching the scenery pass by. The boat slid smoothly through the water, offering a far more comfortable experience than riding on a horse or, worse, in a carriage. Between the grey walls lining the sides of the canal, the grey buildings rising up out of sight, and the blanket of fog smothering everything, it felt a little bit like gliding through a dream.

I came fully awake as the boat scraped to a halt at the foot of a little ramp leading up to the road. I helped Darla to the shore and she seemed to come alive as we began to walk, peppering me with stories of the good times she had had at our destination. We were heading to a small cafe offering wine and snacks that apparently served as a frequent host for afternoon get-togethers for Darla and her friends.

I gave Darla a smile as she finished the epic tale of Verdiana Katsaros and The Missing Bracelet.

"You have so many friends," I said, "and here I was worried that you would have trouble adjusting away from the quiet solitude of Raventree Hall."

We paused for a moment to watch a brief altercation taking place. A rich man had just had one of his guards pin a servant up against the bright red door of the house we were walking past. As we watched the guard fished through the man's pockets and picked out a few valuables. I took Darla's arm and got us moving again before the ensuing beating got too brutal. She shook her head, then brightened up as she remembered my comment.

"Oh, making friends isn't so hard once somebody shows you how things work," Darla said, waving her hand dismissively. "For the first few months they were willing to forgive me anything. They were so excited to have a barbarian princess to coo over that it hardly mattered whether I understood a word they were saying."

How did the saying go? It's not important that a bear dance well, it's impressive enough that it's dancing. I didn't think Darla would appreciate the comparison, so I held my tongue.

We arrived at the cafe and with a few short words Darla very quickly secured us a private table, a bottle of Volantine white wine, and a plate of candied pears. I could definitely see myself becoming a regular at a place like this.

"Over time I learned the language and I learned how to fit in," Darla continued, pausing to nibble on a slice of pear. "Eventually it was almost like I was one of them."

I raised an eyebrow and took a sip of wine, taking a moment to enjoy the flavor. Tart, sharp, just a little bit sweet. Very nice.

"I suppose I undid some of your work last night," I said, setting my glass down with unrepentant grin.

"Oh, I'd say we reminded them of something they shouldn't have forgotten," she replied, matching my grin with one of her own.

"You don't want to be just another Braavosi lady?"

"You know, the women here brag about how much money their husbands make," Darla sniffed. "Oh, they try and dress it up and talk around it, but it's always there. That's why Onesta Golatas thinks she's practically royalty."

Every country, every society, every group of people has its pecking order. Westeros had an extensive formal hierarchy in the feudal relationship between the king and his vassals and their vassals and so on. Braavos had the Sealord and the keyholders of the Iron Bank, but otherwise prominent citizens were on a fairly level playing field. Westerosi noblemen competed against each other in their own personal strength and skill at arms and the power of the levies at their command, and to a smaller extent with the money they earned from their holdings. Apparently the Braavosi were much more focused on the pursuit of wealth, which fit with what I knew of them as a people who somewhat disdained martial pursuits.

Braavos seemed to follow Westeros in that wives took their social standing from their husbands, at least to start out with. They then jockeyed for position amongst themselves through a process that was fairly opaque to Brynden but that I recognized as essentially mean girl tactics leavened with the occasional bit of palace intrigue and assassination. It was lucky for me that Darla seemed to have a knack for that kind of thing. And also that she hadn't gone completely native-while the Sunset Legion was doing all right financially, we could hardly measure up to any of the major trading concerns, at least not yet.

Darla leaned forward, a predatory gleam in her eye as she lowered her voice. "I don't care how much money her bedspread cost when I know who she was picturing last night when she had to convince her husband that he was bringing her any satisfaction."

I could hardly respond to that with anything but my best shit eating grin. I raised my glass of wine to her in a silent toast before taking another sip. As I did, a question occurred to me.

"Magister Golatas is that wealthy? I didn't get a chance to talk with him about his business."

"Oh, yes. He got his start in long distance trading to places like Qarth and Yi Ti. Then he started a business selling insurance to other traders. They pay him a fee and if they lose a ship, he pays them to cover their losses."

Selling insurance... I wondered how that was regulated. Probably at the Sealord's discretion. Back home Warren Buffet had become incredibly wealthy largely on the strength of his insurance investments, and that was under a regime that required insurance policies to be actuarially fair, where the insurance companies made their money by investing the floating capital that accrued between when they were paid and when they had to pay out. I doubted any such restrictions were in place here.

Of course, I doubted they had actuarial tables here either. If I knew a bit more math I could really make a killing here. On the other hand, having a little more cash on hand wouldn't really do much to help my family against the threats coming down the pike. Besides, how could I live with myself if I took the opportunity presented by living in a fantasy world and used it to secure a desk job?

"So in a way we're in the same business," I said. "We both get paid to take on risks. He just gets paid more, for now."

"Oh?" Darla asked, a bit challenging.

"We've done well on the battlefield so far, and we'll be doubling in strength soon. It might not be the same kind of monthly income that some magisters manage," I said, "but if we ever sack a Free City we'll walk off with a haul that even Magister Golatas would be impressed by."

"That could happen? What is it that makes your legion so special? People ask me and I can't really explain it."

"You want a lesson on battlefield tactics?" I asked. "All right."

I finished off the rest of the pear slice I had been working on and washed it down with a swallow of wine while I thought.

"The first thing you have to understand is that it's hard, mentally, to stand your ground when somebody comes running at you with a weapon," I said. "Likewise, it's hard to charge at somebody who's standing their ground and holding a weapon."

"That makes sense."

"What we do is train everybody to work together. It's easier to charge if all your friends are charging, and easier to hold your ground when you're shoulder to shoulder with people you trust," I said. "It's a lot like what the old Ghiscari legions used to do."

Darla frowned. "I thought the Unsullied copied the Ghiscari legions."

She was familiar with my strong loathing of the Unsullied, and had either done some reading on the topic or had pieced together their training methods from my comments on the topic. Either way, I was impressed.

"There are some similarities, but they're more of a distant cousin than a sibling," I said. "Where they cut off their soldiers' balls and train them like dogs until they can do nothing but obey, we teach young men to channel their actions to the benefit of the entire unit. The only real commonality is how they are trained to act as a unit."

I was prepared to elaborate on my explanation but was interrupted by a young woman who approached our table. She looked to be a few years older than Darla, and more than a few pounds heavier. Contrary to the usual Braavosi fashion of muted colors, her dress-a fancy silk construction-was dyed in a riot of bright reds, greens, and yellows.

"Darla! How nice to see you here," she said. The faux friendliness of her voice set my teeth on edge. "I had such a lovely time at the party last night, though I dare say I didn't enjoy it as much as you did."

"Marghi," Darla said, her smile not reaching her eyes, "how... brave of you to wear that dress."

I smiled blandly and kept my mouth shut. A good commander wins the battles he should and some of the ones he shouldn't. A great commander knows when it's best to avoid combat altogether.

ooOoo


	19. Chapter 19

AN: CKII is a hell of a game.

ooOoo

I decided to avoid any more big social events while I was in Braavos. It seemed like a good idea to stay out of sight for a while after I killed somebody in public. I had been acting in self defense and I was pretty sure I was well-connected enough that the Sealord wouldn't just summarily throw me into prison or execute me, but continuing to try to thrust myself onto the scene could prompt some kind of reaction. Better to let memories fade. Besides, I didn't much care for parties.

That left Darla and I with plenty of time to explore the city together. Almost like a honeymoon trip. A little different, what with her having recently given birth, but we already employed people who could watch over the kid while Darla and I were out and about. One of the perks of being rich.

Braavos was a real city. It had restaurants. It had a shopping district. It had bars. It had offices. It had people bustling around at all hours of the day. Hells, it had commuters. Drop it off on the Cote D'azur somewhere and it would be completely integrated to modern life within a decade. Sure, the technology would create an adjustment period but these people had already adapted to the rhythms of normal city life.

It was a jarring transition from the army camps, medieval holdfasts, and transportation ships where I had been spending my time lately. At first it felt alien. Then for a while I was a bit homesick. Then I forced myself to stop whining and focused on enjoying myself with my young wife.

It wasn't all fun and games. I did take a couple days to meet with the blacksmiths and armorers that the Sunset Legion relied on to kit out new soldiers to make sure they'd be ready when our new group of recruits graduated. I also met with the Iron Bank to deliver their cut of our earnings so far and give a report on how things had been going. Everything I told them could have been put in a letter but I figured they would appreciate the personal touch. I'm not sure they really understood the foundation for our military success but they were quite keen on how that success would turn into money making opportunities down the road, which was of course why I had wanted to go into business with them in the first place. Other than those errands I was able to devote my attention to Darla.

Mostly we spent our time on the kind of things you would expect newlyweds to do, but there was one evening that stood out. We were walking home from the opera in the dark, the performance having gone on longer than expected, when a pair of brightly dressed young men came walking towards us from the other direction. Bravos. I immediately fixed the one that I took to be the leader with a disdainful glare.

I had absorbed many of Brynden's memories when I arrived in this world, and it seemed that some of his prejudices had come along with that package. One example of that was a severe animus towards bravos. Now, taking a step back and trying to engage in some objective introspection, some of Brynden's mentality definitely came from the angry old man part of his psyche: when he was a young man who needed to brave physical danger to prove himself he'd joined up with Ormund Baratheon's host and battled the Ninepenny Kings in the disputed lands.

There was more to it, though. Brynden didn't really have it in him to condemn teenagers who were out to raise a little hell. He wasn't that much of a hypocrite. No, he saved his real scorn for those who called themselves water dancers. As a reader I always thought they were pretty cool swashbuckling types that brought a little bit of flair into the world and provided a nice contrast to the lumbering knights overly dependent on brute force. But to the eye of a practical military man they looked quite different.

Anybody who knew they were going to be fighting for their life would wear a suit of armor. That armor would render a rapier almost entirely useless. Even if it were technically possible to score a hit on an armored opponent, if one side of a fight has to worry about being hit anywhere on the body and the other side only has to guard a few vulnerable points... that makes up for even a massive gap in skill. Fundamentally, the water dance was useless on a battlefield.

And that was fine. The main point of a sword was to serve as personal defense for the man about town. I was wearing one by my side for just that purpose. Nothing wrong with that.

What set my teeth on edge-thanks to Brynden's instincts-were people who fetishized what should have been a practical tool. Even in a medieval society like Westeros where people took slights to their honor quite seriously, it just wasn't that common for people to find themselves in impromptu duels to the death. It was just common sense to be prepared just in case, but there was no reason to focus obsessively on such an unlikely event.

In modern terms, the Westerosi approach was for most folks to carry pistols and hit the shooting range with some frequency; the bravos spent every weekend obsessively running through urban self defense camps. Were they somewhat more prepared in the event that a surprise fight broke out? Sure. Was it a worthwhile expenditure of effort? Not really.

Where Westerosi society trained men in useful combat techniques and honored valiant warriors, Braavos preferred to lionize clever traders and sailors. Young men who were inclined towards physical combat but blocked from socially useful expressions of that talent had created their own subset of society where they spent their time obsessively honing a skill that was only really useful in competitions between each other. It was a perversion of the warrior ethos that really stuck in my craw.

Basically, water dancing was something you fobbed off on your daughter who insisted on learning how to fight. It was embarassing for grown men to make it the focus of their life.

That whole analysis was running through the back of my mind as I kept my main focus on the approaching bravos. These guys looked more like teenagers out to find trouble than any kind of experts with the blade. As they drew closer it occurred to me that they might have mistaken me for one of their own. The Westerosi style clothing I was wearing was brighter than the average Braavosi citizen preferred, and I had an arming sword visibly strapped to my belt. It was also possible that they were out on the prowl looking for an easy mark to rob.

As they drew closer I didn't let up with the arrogant eye contact, and I even let my hand drift down towards my sword. On the one hand, this was provocative. On the other hand, Brynden Tully didn't go through life shying away from conflict and I wasn't about to start now. Besides, they could just have well been egged on by a show of weakness and scared off by a show of strength as the reverse. Robbers usually weren't interested in picking on targets that fight back, and teenagers out to engage in the time-honored practice of fucking with their peers in front of pretty girls would think twice on running into a full grown man and his wife.

I wasn't one hundred percent sure it would work. I had inherited from Brynden a fantastically fit body for a forty-two year old man. He was solidly built and could more than handle himself on the battlefield. However, he didn't have the sheer intimidating bulk of Gregor or even Sandor Clegane. An unobservant an overconfident teenager-that is to say, a teenage boy-might well persuade themselves that they could take me in a melee fight.

The bravos puffed themselves up as they drew close. I started to prepare myself for action. It was a chilly night, so I was wearing a cloak. That could come in handy if this turned into a fight. I shifted, letting the cloak fall open as I prepared to wrap it around my left arm to be used as a makeshift buckler.

The bravos glanced down at the motion. I saw the lead one's eyes widen. He turned and whispered something to his friend, and the two of them scurried across the street before we crossed paths. I waited until we had walked down to the end of the block and rounded a corner before I said anything.

"That's odd."

Darla, who had been woolgathering through the whole near-confrontation, started a bit. "What's that?"

"Those kids," I said, looking down. With my cloak open the black fish embroidered on my doublet was clearly visible. "It almost seemed like they recognized my sigil. I didn't think people here paid attention to that kind of thing."

She giggled. "They don't, usually."

I raised an eyebrow and waited for her to continue.

"They probably couldn't tell you your house," she said, "but at least this week everybody knows about the Blackfish."

"Oh?"

"Well, they heard about the madman who killed five men and satisfied their wives all in one night."

"Was that what happened?"

She giggled again, and shifted closer. We went from holding hands to a sort of walking cuddle, my right arm wrapped around her. "Stories do tend to grow in the retelling."

I chuckled, but the thought lingered on my mind as we walked down the street. It made sense that the events at the party were the kind of thing that caught people's attention. In the absence of newspapers word of mouth was surprisingly effective at spreading gossip through the community, the more sensationalistic the better, though some of the details might get fudged in the pursuit of a better story. Eventually some other juicy rumor would hit the town and I'd fade out of the collective memory. I should probably just count my blessings that I lived in a world that didn't have cell phone cameras or the internet.

"His tears cure cancer. Too bad he never cries," I muttered to myself.

"What was that?"

"Just thinking out loud," I said, shaking my head. "Jon Arryn wanted me to help Robert's diplomats open communications with Braavos, but it seems to me that you would be much better suited to the task."

One of the most useful skills that I had brought with me to this new world was the ability to delegate work to other people in a way that had them thanking me for the privilege. This one should be easy. I hated bullshit networking events back home and Brynden had never much cared for them here. Darla, on the other hand, was a social butterfly that had been stifled back in Raventree Hall and was just starting to spread her wings here in Braavos.

It made such good sense on logical grounds that I would say no more than seventy-five percent of my motivation for bringing this up was laziness on my part.

Darla looked a bit wrong-footed at the change in topic, but soon regained her poise. "You think so?"

"I'm not really adding much if I just repeat to them the things that you tell me," I said. "Not to mention that with my reputation it might be a little hard to arrange introductions to polite society."

"With your reputation everybody would stay polite," she said, smiling, then sobered. "Can I really help the king?"

"Of course," I said. "You don't need to arrange their meetings with the Sea Lord. Robert's imprimatur will see to that. But these guys will also want to meet with the Braavosi upper crust and get a sense of what they're thinking and how they feel about us. I have a feeling that you can make that happen."

I could see the gears turning behind her eyes as she thought the idea over. I knew things had been resolved in my favor when she broke into a satisfied smile.

"I have been looking for an excuse to host my own party for a while. This could be fun."

ooOoo


	20. Chapter 20

AN: I should mention that I really do appreciate all the reviews. It's too bad that the system here doesn't really allow for much direct author-reader interaction. Also, something something something ice zombie dragons.

ooOoo

I stood at the entrance to our training camp just off the Braavosi coast. Next to me was Walder Frey. Arranged behind us were twelve sergeants pulled from our existing legion. They were to serve as a leg up for Walder, who would be taking the lead in training the new cohort of troops. I wanted to build a machine for creating soldiers, after all, and it wasn't much of a machine if it took my personal attention to keep everything running smoothly.

Walder wasn't completely on board with the plan.

"Are you sure you can't do the introduction speech, at least? It's important to get off on the right foot."

I shook my head. "That's exactly why I want you to handle it."

At some point I would need Walder to be able to handle the entire training process on his own. I was here to catch him if he stumbled but I couldn't carry him through the tough bits. If I did, how would he build the confidence to take care of them himself when I wasn't around? It was rough for him right now but ultimately he'd look back on this as a valuable opportunity to build character. Probably.

"It's just, I'm not much for speeches, so-"

I interrupted by clasping him on the shoulder. "And what better way to learn than through experience?"

He sighed and looked down at his feet. I could tell that he wasn't trying to be difficult. Walder just had a very strong dislike for being the center of attention. It was no doubt a personality trait that had served him well as a child in the Frey family and it had led him to develop some truly useful skills when it came to gathering information. However, he couldn't let his fears rule his life. Or rather, I couldn't let his fears limit his usefulness to me.

I wasn't doing all of this just to fuck with him. Walder was proving quite adept at information gathering, and as his network grew it would become less and less practical for him to manage things from wherever he happened to be in the field. He would need to be stationed in one place. Managing the training of new recruits would keep him an active participant in the legion's business without compromising his ability to run his network. It would kill two birds with one stone.

If, of course, he could get past his phobia and do the job.

I walked around until I was standing in front of Walder, now resting one hand on each shoulder. I kept my gaze on the top of his helmet and waited patiently. Eventually he lifted his head and his eyes met mine. I waited another beat so that he could tell that I was serious before I spoke.

"Walder, you've been to places these kids have only heard about in stories. You're a veteran of war in the disputed lands," I said. "The new recruits are going to look up to you and they're going to look to you for guidance. You don't need to be anything you're not. You just need to be confident in being yourself."

Walder drew himself up a little taller and some of the nervousness fell from his face. "I... thanks, captain."

I nodded and returned to my place standing next to him, waiting for the recruits to arrive. The silence felt a little more comfortable, now.

In the end, Walder got through the induction speech without a hitch. He might not quite have matched the natural flair and showmanship of the old Blackfish-in my completely unbiased opinion-but he turned in a completely serviceable performance. The new recruits hung on his every word, as expected. The rank and file were probably acting out of ingrained social norms as much as anything else, but the twelve young nobles who would be the new commanding officers were all focused on Walder personally. He was everything they aspired to be, after all: a veteran fresh from leading men in victorious battles on the disputed lands, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Blackfish.

I gave a very brief statement after he wrapped things up before we turned the veteran sergeants loose on the new recruits. The first day, as we'd done before, was split between introducing the new recruits to the concept of mass discipline, following orders as a cohesive body, and starting in on their physical conditioning. It retained a certain tragi-comic feel, although more comic than tragic now that I had already seen troops progress from this bumbling first day mess into a fearsome and well-coordinated fighting force.

I stuck around for the first month of training. I didn't say much. I hardly spoke to the men at all, in fact. I made myself available in case Walder felt like he needed advice, which didn't happen often after the first week. I also ate meals with the officers. Even there I let Walder take the lead. If I dominated things he would be one of thirteen junior officers. By taking a step back I hoped to emphasize the fact that he was their leader.

Westerosi nobles were quite familiar with the concept of the chain of command. It was built into their basic social structure. In transforming them into productive members of the Sunset Legion I felt we needed to replace society's chain of command with the chain of command I had set up for the legion. I did everything I could both formally and informally to reinforce the ranks established by the legion.

I may have been overthinking the problem, but if the new officers took it into their mind that they could boss Walder around because their families had a more illustrious lineage than the Freys the results could be disastrous. Better to nip those kinds of ideas in the bud by putting out the message in as many ways that I knew how that doing such a thing would draw the unforgiving wrath of the Blackfish. Sometimes an ounce of prevention really was worth a pound of cure.

A month into the training everything was going well and I packed my bags to head back out to the legion's camp in the disputed lands. I felt bad about having been away for several months and it just felt like a bad idea to be away for nearly a year in total as I would be if I stuck around until training was complete. I gave Walder one last pep talk before I was on my way.

Say one thing about working with the Iron Bank, say it isn't cheap. But sailing from place to place on Braavosi ships makes for a lot of uneventful trips.

ooOoo

I arrived back at the camp to find that contrary to all of the rules of dramatic convention nothing of note had happened while I was gone. Everything seemed to be in order as I gave things a visual inspection although I withheld my final judgment until I had a chance to talk with my second in command. I invited Rodrik and Petyr both to my command tent for dinner and debriefing.

My primary concern was morale. I didn't expect that an army riding high on recent victories and receiving regular pay would mutiny, but keeping a large bunch of young men cooped up in one place for an extended period of time was a recipe for rowdiness, to say the least.

"Morale has been good," Rodrik said. "We've worked them very hard on marching and drill. Their physical conditioning is the best I've ever seen it and I think we could use some of the more advanced maneuvers in combat now."

That was something. When we had graduated the men they had been able to, for example, march straight forward, stop, turn ninety degrees left or right as a coordinated unit, and march off in the new direction. However, it was the kind of thing that could go catastrophically wrong if just a few people screwed up so I had semi-officially stricken the command from the list of things we would ever actually ask the men to do in combat. I'd have to verify for myself what Rodrik was saying, but if he was correct then that was very good news.

"They're not pissing and moaning about all the work?"

"There's some grumbling, sure," Rodrik said, "but nothing serious. They get three square meals a day and..."

He gestured vaguely towards one wall of the tent. I followed where he was pointing, then called up a mental map of the camp. When I put two and two together I burst out laughing.

"Whores," I said, once I had calmed down, "you can say the word. I'm not a septon."

Rodrik blushed as Petyr enjoyed a friendly laugh at his expense. Petyr patted him on the shoulder before speaking up.

"The whores have been keeping the men's spirits up," he said, pausing as it was his turn to flush when Rodrick snickered. "And nobody's come down with the pox. I've made it clear to everyone involved that trying to evade our health inspections will have severe consequences."

"Good," I said, prompting a slightly startled reaction from Rodrick. "Oh, come off it. I was a young man once, I know what young men are like. Which reminds me, have we had any troubles with drinking?"

Rodrick shook his head and paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. "No. A few men have been buying and selling wine rations, but I've only stepped in to discipline them when the drinking affects their performance."

I nodded. Ideally you wouldn't want your soldiers to be intoxicated in a combat zone but in reality a medieval armed camp was no place for persnickety micro-management. As long as discipline was maintained where it mattered I didn't see any need to try to stamp out every little vice. Whoring, drinking, and...

"What about gambling?"

Petyr flinched slightly before recovering his poise and shaking his head. "Some card games and some dice games, but nothing serious."

"Cards and dice... you're sure that's all?"

I wasn't going to insult Petyr by reminding him of my feelings about decisions that were owned up to and decisions that I had to ferret out myself. I let the warning note in my tone of voice serve as a reminder. Petyr held strong for a moment, then sighed.

"I've also been running a few numbers games to keep the men occupied."

"All right," I said, running my fingers through my hair, "what's the vigorish?"

Both Petyr and Rodrick were staring at me like I was speaking in tongues. It took a moment's reflection to figure out why. Usually I spoke Westerosi as if it were English, Brynden's familiarity with the language letting me speak it as if it were my native tongue. When I hit a term that either didn't exist or that Brynden didn't know, though, apparently the English term came through unfiltered.

Well, I couldn't take it back now. Might as well bull through.

"The vig?" I asked, then sighed. "What percentage of the money wagered are you keeping for yourself?"

Petyr nodded, filing away the new vocabulary word before speaking. "I'd need a slate to work it out exactly. They wager a penny and pick three numbers from one through seven. I draw three numbers from a bag and anybody who matches gets two hundred and fifty pennies."

"You put the balls back after you draw them? And the order has to match?"

Petyr nodded. He looked a little nervous, now. Rodrik was obviously glad that he wasn't going through an interrogation but he was smart enough to know that as the man in command he was ultimately responsible for whatever happened on his watch. I let them stew for a bit while I thought about what I wanted to say.

"I understand that we're leading an army of men. Not saints. I'm not trying to turn them into saints. Like I said before, I'm no septon," I said. "If the men want to spend their money on whores, wine, and gambling, that's their decision. And if we're providing those services to them there's nothing wrong with getting paid for it."

A flash of relief crossed Petyr's face, but he was wise enough to know that another shoe could well be about to drop. He did his best to remain stoic.

"What I will not have is my men being swindled by the officers who are supposed to be their leaders. Seriously overcharging for wine and whores is a swindle. Crooked payouts are a swindle," I continued. "Not only is it wrong, it's also foolish to cheat men who you will be trusting with your lives out on the battlefield."

I paused, then drew myself up straight and assumed the pose I usually reserved for making public proclamations.

"Officially, any man tempted by gambling, promiscuity, or drunkenness should pray to the Seven for guidance," I said. "Unofficially, bump the payout to whatever round number puts the vig a little over ten percent, and try not to let anybody gamble away all their money."

Sometimes being a noble in Westeros felt like playing a part in a production of Shakespeare. Other times it felt more like being a mob boss.

ooOoo


	21. Chapter 21

AN: Moving sucks.

ooOoo

I found that Rodrik had been completely truthful about the state of the men. After I resumed command I discovered that the day to day routine had reached a pleasant equilibrium of hard, productive training during the day followed by what certainly sounded like cheerful bullshitting around the fire in the evening. I was a little concerned that the men might enjoy camp life a bit too much and find themselves reluctant to march back out to war, but not overly so. Our recruits were too young to be thinking about settling down to a farm and a family. They still yearned to make a name for themselves in battle.

There wasn't much danger in the other direction either, of men grumbling about inactivity. There might have been, but they knew another thousand men were being trained to join the legion and shared the assumption that they would be hitting the campaign trail again once those reinforcements arrived. Any kind of waiting is made more bearable by knowing when it will end.

For myself, I put in my time on physical training. A man of more than forty years can't afford to slack on that kind of thing if he wants to make his living at war. I had knocked off most of the rust accumulated during my recent travels back at the training camp, but I could always stand to be just a little bit sharper. I didn't anticipate running into anybody else in Essos who wanted to kill me personally, but then I hadn't anticipated running into Willem Darry either.

I also took the time to catch up on my paperwork. Synthesizing all of our after action reports into a coherent narrative was a long term project, but it wasn't going to get any easier if I put off getting started. Petyr's bookkeeping still warranted the occasional audit and there were plenty of miscellaneous bits and pieces of paper that could benefit from my personal attention.

By far the most pleasant of those dispatches was the news that Darla was pregnant once more. She wrote to inform me of the news and ask if I had any suggestions for names. That warranted some thought. She'd been fairly set on Tytos's name from the jump out of gratitude towards the man who had arranged her side of our introduction. I'd been happy to let her have it. I'd done a little research and hadn't managed to find anybody named Jacob on this stupid planet. Apparently it didn't make the cut when Martin was deciding on Westeros's equivalent of biblical names. I figured for a third or fourth kid it might be something I could justify as a name I picked up in Essos somewhere. For now... I wrote back to let her know I'd be happy with any Tully name-bar Hoster, there were enough of those running around the Riverlands already-or Willem.

I kind of hoped we had a boy and Darla went with Willem. Would it lead to an embarrassing conversation with the boy at some point? Perhaps. Would it provide an excuse to retell the anecdote of his (probable) conception to all manner of people? Definitely.

Other than that, things were fairly routine. Petyr even seemed to be keeping honest accounts of the money I'd entrusted to him. I double-checked the petty cash box and every coin he'd claimed was there was in fact there. If he was cheating me subtly enough to get away with it I was willing to call it a fair wage. If he was cheating the men too blatantly I figured the problem would sort itself out on the battlefield soon enough.

All in all, it was an almost idyllic experience. As I was boarding the boat that would take me back to the training camp for the graduation ceremony, it occurred to me that Tyrosh was essentially paying me handsomely to train up my men. It was nice, but it didn't seem like the kind of thing that could last forever.

ooOoo

I stood in the field that had served as the neutral zone between our two armies for almost a year now. Before me our men stood arrayed in ranks facing the enemy camp. The newly expanded Sunset Legion occupied the center of our line. Two thousand men strong, the legion was organized into three columns. The first was fifty men wide by fifteen men deep. The secondary column was of a similar size, positioned to the left of the main column and seven or eight paces behind it. The reserve column was fifteen men wide and about fifty men deep. The Windblown were deployed as skirmishers to either side of the legion, with their cavalry evenly distributed between the right and left hand side.

The Sunset Legion troops were overwhelmingly carrying pikes, of course. Perhaps one out of ten were wielding crossbows while another one out of ten carried halberds. The Windblown were armed according to their personal preferences. The majority seemed to favor swords of one form or another, but I could see men wielding various polearms, battle axes, and even a few war hammers.

I had mixed the newly trained legionnaires in with their more experienced brethren. The new troops made up roughly a third of the primary column, half of the secondary column, and two thirds of the reserve. I was confident in their training but it only made sense to use my veteran forces as the tip of the spear, so to speak.

This was the third day since I had returned to the Disputed Lands with my newly trained troops and the third morning that we had spent standing in this field, offering battle. So far our opposition didn't seem inclined to take us up on it, even though they still outnumbered us by more than a thousand men. I didn't blame them. I wouldn't have wanted to face my boys in open battle either.

This particular morning we had been graced with a light rain shower. It was more pleasant than direct sunshine for men in armor, although things could become unpleasant quickly if the rain picked up enough to really soak us through. At the moment the rain was just making the ground a bit slippery and bringing out the smell of fresh grass and unwashed men.

This morning wasn't just special for the rain. It was also the day we were going to break this standoff. I'd been right that Tyrosh wasn't going to be content to pay us forever just to sit around and passively hold territory. In addition to paying for the expansion of the Sunset Legion, they had also opened up their vaults and shelled out the gold required to send us a platoon of combat engineers.

I smiled as the first wagon rounded the corner of the road leading back to our camp. It was loaded down with enough material that it was leaving visible ruts in the dirt. Windblown men that had been pressed into manual labor soon had the wagon unloaded, then the next, and the next. Then the engineers went to work. It took some time-I had the men stand down and take a snack and water break-but they didn't waste any effort and eventually turned the collection of wooden parts into a massive frame supporting a long lever arm.

Windblown men were again pressed into service to shovel dirt into the counterweight. They finished their work and attached a sling to the lever arm just as another wagon rolled up, this one piled with boulders. Ironically, this was one area where I was learning new things about technology. While I could describe the effects of all sorts of high powered weapons I couldn't actually build any of them. Even now, watching this one go up, I could kind of puzzle out how it worked but I couldn't tell you any specifics. Drawing on Brynden's memories I knew this wasn't the largest trebuchet he'd ever seen but that it should be more than enough for the job.

The really monstrously huge trebuchets could smash down stone walls. Wooden field fortifications should pose much less of an obstacle.

A group of men went to work cranking the windlass attached to the side of the machine. The lever arm gradually lowered as the counterweight rose. Once it touched the ground, several men carried one of the boulders over and loaded up the sling. They quickly scampered out of the way once the boulder was in place. The leader of the engineers looked to the Tattered Prince for approval. His arm rose, then fell.

A firing trebuchet moves with deceptive speed. The firing arm doesn't jump with a sudden snap like a catapult. Instead it accelerates smoothly, whipping through the air completely unhindered by the hundred pounds or more loaded into the sling. In this case, the rock was sent sailing smoothly through the air to come crashing down ten yards short of the wooden palisade guarding the enemy camp. The rock bounced forward once, twice, before hitting the wall and coming to rest. A few seconds later the crack of impact reached us. The wall had rattled a bit but still stood strong.

The head engineer called over the men and had them load more dirt into the counterweight. The next boulder caught the wall in flight, crashing through and leaving a several foot wide gap punched into the palisade.

It was at this point that the enemy soldiers began streaming out of their camp. They must have seen the trebuchet being put together, but I suppose it was natural to want to believe in your fortifications until it was proven that they wouldn't work. The trebuchet kept hammering away at the palisade as the soldiers started to form up. We could have tried to target the soldiers but we had decided ahead of time that denying the enemy a safe place to retreat was more important.

Also, of course, a trebuchet was not exactly a precision targeted weapon. Cool though it was to fling massive boulders through the air, you couldn't dial in a trajectory in the way that a more modern artillery piece would allow. We also weren't using high explosives. A boulder is a rather all or nothing affair. If it hits you, that's pretty much that. If it lands next to you it's terrifying but it won't do you any physical harm. All in all, aiming at a fixed structure was the best use of the thing.

For their part, our enemies could have chosen to shelter in place. Anybody who didn't get squashed by a flying boulder would be fine, and if they were at all smart about things they could make sure that most of them wouldn't get hit. The problem with that approach is the morale factor. Crouching in place for hours as meteor strikes smash up your camp all around is not the kind of thing that leaves an army ready and raring for a fight. If they were going to fend us off their best bet was to beat us in the open field and destroy our artillery or even turn it to their own use.

Apparently the opposing commander agreed with my take on the situation. As I watched the somewhat panicky stream of men formed up into the more disciplined ranks of a proper army, no longer flinching at the periodic crash of falling rocks.

These guys weren't as well drilled on unit tactics as the legion, but they were veteran sellswords who had been working together for over a year. They put the bulk of their men in the center with smaller screening forces out on the wings. The center unit looked to be made up of more heavily armed and armored men. They all seemed to be wearing at least a breast plate and helm and I saw more than a few in full plate. Quite a few of them were wielding two handed swords, although there were also a wide variety of polearms in evidence. Anywhere in Westeros this would be considered a very respectable collection of heavy infantry.

From where we stood the ground sloped up gently towards the enemy forces. Looking up towards them I could see the first few riders from the Long Lances behind them exiting the camp and starting to form up. The infantry forces didn't wait for the cavalry to finish assembling, instead starting their attack as soon as they felt ready. The sound of their war cries reached us a few seconds after we saw them surge forward.

I nodded at Rodrik to signal the advance.

A grin stole its way onto my face almost against my will at the imminent prospect of battle.

ooOoo


	22. Chapter 22

AN: I do appreciate all the reviews. Thank you for letting me know what you liked.

ooOoo

A horse that is asked to charge a line of spears will balk. The horse knows deep in its bones that to continue onward is suicide, and even the greatest rider will rarely be able to convince his mount to commit suicide. It is this tendency that the Sunset Legion exploited to survive cavalry charges. By presenting a formidable hedge of spears capable of killing horses the attackers were fended off without much physical force being applied to them at all. Humans could see just as well as horses, which is why the first clash of arms rang out between their wings and our skirmishers.

Men, though, had a much greater capacity for self-deception than do horses. Where a horse looks at a forest of spearheads and sees certain death a man can look at the same thing and think: "if we all attack that formation somebody will survive; why shouldn't that be me?" Sellswords tend to be the kind of people who look at the world that way and veteran sellswords have taken those kind of risks and survived. So the mere threat of force wasn't going to be enough today. While the enemy center may have hesitated in the face of our opposition it ultimately pressed forward and engaged us in battle.

Life isn't fair. As far as I could tell, the enemy forces were quite skilled. Some might say you can't really take a man's measure until you've fought him yourself. From my vantage point, though, mounted on a horse walking behind our middle column, I could see our enemy well enough. They charged like veteran troops, held their weapons like veteran troops, and it seemed reasonable enough to suppose that they would use them like veteran troops. If they were dropped into a series of one on one duels against my men they would probably win well more than half. Of course, the point of the pike block is that they didn't get to engage in one-on-one fights. As they tried to reach the man standing in front of the formation, he and his four buddies were all able to try to fend them off. Like I said, life isn't fair.

The sound of the legion fighting stood out. The skirmishers in the general melee struck each other with ringing blows that blended together like the sound of a hundred smiths hammering away at a hundred forges. The legionnaires, on the other hand, attacked with short, sharp thrusts of their spears that landed with dull thuds that only differed mildly in tone whether the strike hit armor or flesh. The overall effect was of a heavy rain on a tin roof, occasionally punctuated with the screams of wounded men.

The first few attackers to reach our formation were knocked to the ground in short order. Even when their armor held they were still essentially being pushed to the ground by three, four, or five people. More men arrived at the same time in the next group, spreading the legionnaires' efforts out. The legion ground to a halt, pushing against an opponent that was pushing back with everything they had. The second column engaged the enemy, pushing them back a few paces before resistance stiffened once more. After a few timeless moments the sheer weight of concentrated force began to tell and our enemies broke contact, moving backwards as the legion continued to move forward.

The enemy infantry managed to regroup and mount another push. I didn't see many of my men going down but the renewed effort slowed the legion's advance to a crawl. Though I was confident that we would be able to push through I still found it frustrating that there wasn't much I could do personally to tip the balance. The very nature of the legion's organization that made it so effective also deprived me of the opportunity for heroic leadership of the type that made Robert Baratheon such a nightmare on the battlefield. Of course, I was no Robert Baratheon. I knew intellectually that my legion was fighting more effectively than any levy Brynden Tully had ever led, but I still felt the itch to do something.

Not that I could do much. It was still too early to commit our reserves fully into the fight. Our cavalry wasn't even under my control, being under the command of the Tattered Prince. I trusted his judgment and I was happy to have avoided the logistical hassle of running a group of mercenary horsemen, but the control freak part of me wished that I had more control over this battle. As it was for the moment I was limited to cheering on the men and watching for any major new developments.

As though summoned by my thoughts, the rolling rumble of massed cavalry on the move reached my ears. Looking up from the struggling foot troops, I saw that the Long Lances were making their move. A small portion of their forces had broken off and moved to our right while the overwhelming majority of them were charging the left side of our formation, heading towards where our cavalry were positioned out past the edge of the skirmishers in melee. The smaller force looked to be content to keep the Tattered Prince's men from swooping in and attacking from the flank. The larger group had larger ambitions.

The Long Lances hardly slowed down as they reached the Windblown cavalry. The Windblown were for the most part raiders and skirmishers. They could hardly be expected to hold up in the face of a heavy cavalry charge and most of them simply melted out of the way rather than even try to hold their ground. They did form up in fairly good order once the charging cavalry had gone by, but that was cold comfort to us.

Once past the cavalry screen, the Long Lances wheeled about and charged directly at the Sunset Legion. They ignored both the opportunity to continue on and loot our undefended camp and the chance to blindside skirmishers caught up in melee. Executing such a maneuver on short notice spoke well of their discipline and professionalism. Of course, while it was an impressive sight to see, I personally would have preferred to be facing a less competent enemy.

The Long Lances were threatening to smash right through our reserve column and no doubt intended to attack the bulk of the legion from behind while they were still preoccupied with the stiff resistance from the enemy heavy infantry. If they could keep our reserve out of action while putting everybody else to flight then this battle could go very badly, very quickly.

Fortunately, the Sunset Legion was by its nature well equipped to deal with this sort of threat. I had dispatched a messenger to the reserve column as soon as the Long Lances began their charge. As they approached within a hundred feet of the column a bugle call rang out and my orders were executed. What had been a mass of men pushing forward, on the verge of engaging with the enemy, transformed into an enormous pincushion. All around the edges of the formation men braced their pikes facing outward, while the men behind them stood ready to engage anybody who tried to breach the outer wall.

Just as they had during their attempted roadside ambush, the Lancers pulled up short rather than impale their horses on our pikes. They milled around for a bit, obviously unhappy both at having their charge blunted and at now being subject to harassing crossbow fire. One of them got the bright idea of riding along parallel to the braced pikes, trying to knock them out of the way with his saber. His fellows who tried to take advantage of the "openings" thus created didn't get far as they encountered the second and third line of pikes, often with lethal results.

As for the man trying to disrupt the front line, he came to a halt as his horse pulled up lame. I couldn't see from my vantage point whether the horse had been stabbed, hit with a crossbow bolt, or just pulled a muscle at a very inopportune time. I did see one of our crossbowmen run out from between the spears of his comrades before vaulting onto the horse, landing astride it behind the Long Lancer. The rider twisted around but couldn't bring his saber to bear, as our man had managed to tangle their right arms. The crossbowman had somehow drawn his dagger with his left hand and as I watched he reached forward before yanking his arm back, impaling the other man through his visor. He struck home once, twice, then a third time as horse and men all came crashing to the ground together.

It was at about that time that the Windblown cavalry made themselves known. They had gathered themselves and then circled around so that they were approaching from our rear. While they couldn't resist the Long Lances, they did present a threat when momentum was on their side. The Long Lances, somewhat disorganized, their charge a failure, and now facing attacks from their front, rear, and side, made the logical decision: they sounded the retreat.

As the Lancers pulled back there was a great cry from the men of the Sunset Legion and our attacking columns surged forward. I turned my attention back to the infantry battle to see that the Lancers' retreat had been the last straw that broke our enemies' morale. They were retreating. In fairly good order, but still, retreating.

I took a moment to get our reserve column back in order before beginning our pursuit. I was gratified to see the men following my standing orders and advancing at a regular pace. Our job in the pursuit was not to try to run down the enemy. Rather, our job was to keep pressure on them and prevent them from making any kind of stand or organized resistance that would keep our friendly cavalry from picking them off.

Between the enemy army's competence and the relatively late start to the battle, darkness fell before the retreat could turn into a rout. Still, we had started the day facing a larger army tucked away in a fortified camp and we ended the day with the camp under our control and the enemy on the run. Not a bad day's work.

ooOoo

It wasn't the complete scattering of the opposing forces that we had managed last time, but our enemies did seem to have lost all appetite for battle with us, at least for the moment. We marched on to the next city. Each day we saw the signs of the enemy army having marched before us, and each day we saw no sign of the army itself. We were able to set up our "siege" without any further opposition, although we did remain on alert in case they regrouped and attempted to drive us back.

As it happened, the next group of riders to appear over the horizon were not enemy soldiers, but rather an escort for our primary contact from Tyrosh. He made a beeline for the center of our camp and soon was ensconced in the command tent together with the Tattered Prince and myself.

Our contact was dressed in the typical fashion of the wealthy classes of Tyrosh. Bright red and yellow clothing that cheerfully clashed with the bright green of his beard, which had not only been dyed but also tied off into three oiled points. I always faced a bit of an internal conflict when dealing with Tyroshi: Brynden's memories told me I was facing an exotic and wealthy man who deserved to be taken seriously, while my own instincts were screaming "tryhard hipster." I mostly dealt with it by staying quiet and maintaining a decent poker face, which struck me as a good habit for a sellsword captain to cultivate in any event.

Today our contact was in high spirits that were hardly dimmed by my stoicism or the Tattered Prince's reserved cordiality. He was practically rubbing his hands together as he started the meeting.

"I'm happy to be the one to tell you that we have arrived at a very favorable settlement."

I blinked. We'd had a good run of battles lately, but it was a little hard to believe that we had settled matters in the Disputed Lands so easily. They had earned their name for a reason, after all.

"Just like that?" the Tattered Prince asked, echoing my thoughts.

"Yes," the Tyroshi said, then caught himself. "It is, ah, more in the nature of a cease fire than a treaty. Myr was willing to pay quite a handsome sum for us to call you two off for a few years."

That made more sense. Something similar probably happened any time one of the three combatants looked to be at risk of truly winning or losing their eternal war. The risk of destabilizing the entire area must outweigh the gains of pushing for complete victory for whoever held the upper hand. Having entertained some idle thoughts of the difficulty of truly sieging something on the scale of a Free City, I couldn't say I was unhappy with a negotiated settlement that avoided the problem altogether.

"We're to be called off, then?"

The Tattered Prince didn't sound entirely pleased. It took me a moment to figure out why. I had gotten sucked in to thinking of how best to win the war. He had stayed focused on the bottom line. Literally. If the war was over, then we wouldn't be paid for fighting in it.

While I had been following that train of thought to its conclusion our Tyroshi friend had not only anticipated the thought but also the solution.

"We will be paying out the rest of your contract terms, of course. As well as a bonus of several months' pay," he said, smiling. "As I said, it is a very favorable settlement."

That was a nice little boost to the bottom line. Making payroll would be easy for the next little while. Keeping two thousand now blooded warriors out of trouble while the Sunset Legion stood idle? That could be a different story.

ooOoo


	23. Chapter 23

AN: Look for bi-weekly updates from now on. Also, enjoy the temporary POV change.

ooOoo

The halls of Highgarden provided a suitable setting for a royal court, perhaps even moreso than the Red Keep. The Reach was a wealthy land, and over the years its rulers had poured their wealth into their primary holding. Sumptuous wood paneling lined the walls, mosaics of exotic tiles decorated the floors, and artwork was visible everywhere that it could feasibly be put on display. All of that was just in the public hallways. Every inch of the castle spoke of a life of luxury and ease.

The Red Keep, by contrast, spoke largely of the raw power of a man who had created a kingdom out of a continent. When he was feeling whimsical Jon Arryn often thought that Highgarden was a display of what people wished ruling to be like, while the Red Keep showed the ugly reality.

"Gods, I thought Cersei was exaggerating when she said the Red Keep looked like shit," Robert said. "Jon, could you see about making that place look more like this?"

The two of them were walking to the meeting of the small council, accompanied by a pair of members of the Kingsguard. Jon had found over the last few years, though, that idle conversation with King Robert could all too easily lead to the assignment of an obnoxiously time-consuming task. While getting out of King's Landing had done wonders for Robert's spirits, being on the road had provided him with a plethora of new ideas for spending money. Usually it was idle talk that Jon felt safe enough ignoring, but this comment seemed direct enough to require a response.

"Is there anything in particular that you're looking for?"

Robert waved his hand vaguely.

"Just make it... what was the word she used, tasteful. I want the most tasteful fucking castle in Westeros. Spend whatever you like. We might as well put the gold in the treasury to work."

Jon nodded. Robert's belief that the treasury contained a bottomless fountain of gold was frustrating, but he had found it was pointless to confront him directly. Instead Jon would task a subordinate with writing up a report on the costs of renovating the Red Keep and sit on it. If Robert never asked about it again that would be the end of the matter; if he did bring it up, they could have the conversation about money and trade offs then, based on concrete numbers.

Jon pushed the matter to the back of his mind and squared his shoulders as Robert threw open the door to the meeting room. The small council was made up of the most influential men in the realm. It wouldn't do to approach them with anything less than his full attention.

They were meeting in the aptly named Map Room. The walls were decorated with beautifully illuminated maps of each of the Seven Kingdoms along with a rather speculative map of Essos. The room, like the rest of the castle, was richly appointed. The round table that dominated the center of the room had been polished until it shined, making the embossed map of the Reach almost seem to hover over the tabletop. Around the table sat-stood, now-the members of the small council and Mace Tyrell.

Inviting the local lord to sit in on the council's deliberations was intended to ease some of the sting of the cost of hosting the royal court. The council would enjoy the benefit of hearing about local conditions from the person in the best position to know about them. It was even possible that the fresh voices would add insight to the council's deliberations, although Jon didn't nurture high hopes for Mace. The man was competent enough at running his demesne but he had never been mistaken for an incisive intellect.

While Jon had been surveying the room Robert had made a beeline for their guest. The Lord of the Reach first winced as Robert engulfed his hand for a firm handshake, then flinched as he was pulled forward and subjected to a few hearty slaps on the back.

"Mace! I was looking for you all morning, you slippery devil. Come meet me in the practice yard tomorrow. I can't have my Warden of the South going soft on me!"

Robert laughed boisterously at his own remark. Jon could see Mace trying to parse Robert's words for hidden meanings. The Tyrells had been particularly worried about losing their title as Wardens of the South after finding themselves on the losing side of the rebellion. Robert's words could be taken as a reassurance of Mace's position. Or he could be implying that Mace was unfit for the job. Or there could be any number of subtler messages.

Jon had the advantage of having known Robert since childhood and knew there was a much simpler explanation. Robert wanted closer ties with the Lord Paramount of the Reach. Robert had become fast friends with Ned Stark through many mornings spent beating the hell out of each other on the training fields. Therefore, Robert was going to drag Mace out for morning training until they became friends.

Jon hadn't entirely let go of his own irritation at Mace's decision to support the Mad King, so he didn't feel any need to explain the situation. Mace would figure it out eventually. In the mean time, Robert had transferred his attention to his Master of Ships.

"Stannis! Did Jon drag you all the way out here? I told him you could handle your business without anybody looking over your shoulder."

Robert's disdain for meetings and paperwork was already becoming legendary. He seemed to believe that everybody else felt the same way and so, in an effort to be a generous monarch, often excused members of the small council from attending meetings when he didn't feel their presence was necessary. That inevitably sparked fears in the recipient of Robert's largesse that they were being shuffled out of the halls of power and, soon thereafter, a meeting with Jon where they explained some urgent new matter that they really did need to discuss at the next meeting.

In this case, though, Stannis was present at Jon's request, so Jon took it upon himself to clarify matters.

"Actually, your grace, there is new business that I believe will benefit from your brother's advice."

"Oh? What's that?" Robert asked.

"I have been approached by a representative of Tyrosh. They are prepared to participate in a joint naval action to clean out the Stepstones."

That got Robert's attention. The newly minted king seemed to take the existence of bandits and pirates as a personal affront. The royal party's trip to Highgarden had been extended by several months due to Robert's penchant for hunting down any bandits rumored to operate within a day's ride of their path of travel. It could be frustrating, sometimes, how Robert ignored Jon's lessons about the importance of delegation. Still, even Jon had to admit that the stories of the shock on the faces of the bandits who realized who they were fighting and the smallfolk who realized who had ridden to their rescue, the stories were amusing, at least.

Robert had wanted to send Stannis and the royal fleet onward to root out the pirates operating out of the Stepstones once Dragonstone had been secured. It had fallen to Jon to explain that pursuing that kind of action unilaterally would look to the Free Cities like an attempt at conquest. They had tried to persuade Tyrosh to agree to a joint effort but the merchants who ran the place had refused, citing the costs involved.

"Truly?" Robert asked. "What convinced those skinflints to loosen their purse strings?"

Jon nodded at Varys. The foppish Master of Whispers assumed an overly dramatic pose that somehow made him appear non-threatening even as he recounted secrets from thousands of miles away.

"I believe we owe this opportunity to Ser Brynden Tully. His longspears have been marching with the Windblown from victory to victory across the Disputed Lands," Varys said. "Myr paid quite the pretty penny to have them called off. I suppose Tyrosh considers clearing out pirates to be a good use of the windfall."

"Has there been any further news of the Blackfish?"

"Nothing certain," Varys said, then cocked his head and smiled. "Rumor has it, though, that Volantis is hiring every sellsword they can. I daresay Ser Tully will wind up there soon enough."

"Volantis?" Robert asked. "What are those cunts doing?"

Varys shrugged. "Should I find out you will be the first to know."

"Hmph," Robert said, shaking his head to clear the thought, before turning to his brother. "What say you to this business with Tyrosh, Stannis?"

Stannis thought for a moment before he replied. "We should be able to spare enough ships to get the job done. I would prefer to lead them myself."

"Very well," Robert said. "Stannis Baratheon, scourge of the stepstones. I like it!"

Robert threw back his head and laughed heartily, completely unconcerned when nobody else joined in. Somewhat surprisingly, it was Mace Tyrell who broke the resulting silence.

"I know my bannermen will be glad to hear it. Half the time I talk to them any more it's nothing but complaints about some ship being sunk somewhere. As if it's my fault there are pirates in the Summer Sea!" Mace said, gathering momentum as he went. "Honestly, I don't see why people sink so much money into buying foreign gewgaws anyway. Do you know, Paxter Redwyn gave me a cask of spirits once that he brought from Qohor, supposed to be a great delicacy, and it was the foulest thing I'd ever tasted. And if the taste wasn't enough to put you off, the strength of it was enough to put you under. It did burn with a pretty blue flame when I put a torch to a glass of the stuff, though."

Robert's eyes had lit up at the mention of an unnaturally strong spirit. "Do you still have any of it left?"

"Oh, yes. Nobody would drink the stuff," Mace said. "I should warn you, I developed a bit of a taste for it but I've never seen anybody else get past two glasses."

"Really?"

Jon had been watching the developing conversation in mute horror. It was like watching a boat capsize in the distance. He could see the disaster happen and anticipate what was to unfold but was frozen, unable to do anything about it. All he could do was close his eyes and offer a silent prayer up to the Seven to watch over drunkards and kings.

ooOoo

Every eye in Highgarden's grand hall was on Mace Tyrell as he brought a small glass to his lips. He moved with the slow deliberation of the seriously drunk, giving the lie to the innocent appearance of the clear liquid contained within. He had a beatific smile on his face that he maintained as he tipped the glass back, slowly draining its contents before setting it down gently next to a small pile of its fellows. The table was otherwise empty, the plates from the feast long since cleared away.

The focus of the hall switched across the table to King Robert Baratheon, first of his name. Flickering torchlight illuminated a frown of intense concentration as he stirred himself into action. He wrapped his hand around the glass before him, took several violent breaths as though gearing up for battle, then yanked the glass off the table and poured its contents down his throat in one abrupt motion. He slammed the glass back down to the table and howled at the ceiling.

"Seven hells, each glass tastes worse than the last!"

Mace didn't say anything in response to Robert's shout or give any indication that he was aware of the renewed scrutiny he was under. He had the same placid smile on his face as he picked up the next glass. The smile stayed fixed in place as he brought the glass to his mouth... and slowly toppled backwards in his chair. Fortunately, Mace's sons had been anticipating such a thing for the last several drinks and were positioned behind him to lower him safely to the ground.

"Ha!" Robert called out, raising a fist in the air in triumph. "A worthy foe, but there could only be one winner! Would anybody else like to challenge your king?"

A hush settled over the hall. The entire court started as the silence was broken by the scrape of a chair slowly being pushed back from the table. Cersei Lannister captured all eyes-particularly the men's-as she rose from her seat and strutted down the table to stand before her husband. She played with his hair, then slowly traced her hand down to rest on his chest.

"I can think of a better game we could be playing, your grace."

Robert responded not with words, but by exploding upward from his seat. In one motion he had taken his feet and had Cersei tossed over his shoulder. As he bounded out of the room, the crowd could hear one last comment echoing back down the hallway over the queen's giggles.

"Tell Mace, practice yard, bright and early... mid-morning... or perhaps noon."

ooOoo


	24. Chapter 24

AN: If anybody was wondering, the other other ASoIaF idea that I had was the rebellion failing, the leaders escaping into exile and eventually taking over the Golden Company, then re-enacting the Anabasis in Yi Ti or the Dothraki Sea.

ooOoo

Volantis was a strange city. I'd run across bits and pieces of the eerie black material known as dragonstone before, and it always set my teeth on edge. The massive wall of the stuff surrounding Volantis made my head hurt if I looked at it for too long. The wall was an engineering marvel that rendered the bulk of the city almost immune from attack, but the mere sight of it set some small part of my hind brain gibbering in terror.

Even when the wall was out of sight I could still sense it on the back of my neck. Or at least I thought I could. The sticky, stuffy air and oppressive heat of the city was enough to play tricks on the mind even without the presence of some kind of eldritch horror.

Volantis did have a few saving graces, of course. Chief among them was the harbor. It was real eighth wonder of the world type stuff: an enormous body of water kept perfectly safe from the ocean by a miracle of topography. Drop a statue on one of the outlying islands and you could mistake it for New York. Not that they would name it after an ideal like liberty.

Thanks in large part to the harbor the city was a wealthy center of trade. You could buy just about anything in Volantis, if you had the coin. That included people. The Volantene habit of giving their slaves facial tattoos really made them stand out in a crowd or, sometimes, stand out as the crowd. I had known intellectually that the Free Cities kept large numbers of slaves but in Tyrosh they had blended in with the rest of the city. In Volantis they couldn't be ignored.

I felt bad about it. I really did. All of us did. There just wasn't much we could do about it. Hells, even the Triarchs would have a hard time abolishing slavery if they felt the urge. It was just too deeply ingrained in the fabric of everyday life. It would take a foreign conqueror to get the job done. Given the walls and the harbor that would take the efforts of most of the known nations in the world working together. Or, you know, dragons. My legion was turning into a hell of a battlefield force but we were still a long way from being able to take over a Free City.

In the absence of some knd of fairy tale solution, perhaps Braavos would become an even more dominant sea power. I vaguely recalled that England's ascendance and anti-slavery ideology had played a large role in eradicating slavery back home. I'd do what I could to help the cause if I ever had the chance. In the mean time, their money spent as well as anybody else's.

On a more mundane note, Volantis earned some personal affection from me when I discovered that one of the local delicacies was a variation on seafood paella. I had summoned Rodrik, Petyr, and Walder to a local restaurant and paid for a family-sized serving. I paid a little extra to ensure our privacy once the food had been served.

We cut rather similar looking figures. I had introduced the idea of a non-combat uniform while we were back at our camp following the victory at the Disputed Lands training up a new cohort of recruits. The veteran troops had been a little restive and I'd been a little nervous about turning them loose in Braavos. The identifying uniforms ensured that they knew that if they got into any trouble they would not only face Braavosi justice but also my wrath. I hoped it would also inspire a sense that they were representing the Legion as a whole even when they weren't on the battlefield.

The uniforms themselves were essentially Westerosi formal wear. A doublet and leggings in navy blue accented in red, including a small stylized setting sun positioned where I still half-expected to see a breast pocket. The sergeants had all been given white armbands to wear while the officers, such as the four of us, had red arm bands. I probably should have done something special with mine but I figured everybody already knew who I was anyways.

The four of us also wore the decorations that had been handed out to all of our men upon returning from the Disputed Lands. A small red ribbon to mark combat experience and a small purple and green ribbon to mark participation in our first campaign. I wore mine pinned to my chest across from the decorative sunset, matching what I vaguely recalled to be standard practice back home. Rodrik followed my lead. Petyr wore his tied to a short chain around his neck, not unlike a maester. Walder had pinned his to his sleeve opposite his armband.

I thought I was doing pretty well getting everybody to wear uniform clothing. Enforcing a uniform style of dress seemed a bridge too far.

Despite our dashing uniforms, the mood at the table was somber. I was finally forced to break the silence after a few minutes had passed with nothing but the sound of eating to mark the time.

"You all can speak freely, you know."

They all looked at each other. Through some kind of unspoken communication Petyr was chosen to be the one to reply.

"I don't like this. We've done well. Very well. But... the Golden Company."

Well, he hadn't wasted any time getting to the heart of the matter. I took a big scoop of not-paella into my mouth and thought over my reply as I chewed.

Volantis had approached us with one of those offers that was too good to be true. They had offered to pay us a lot. They had been happy to wait for us to finish training our newest group of recruits. They had even started paying us, albeit at a reduced rate, before we set sail for Volantis. The catch was that what they were paying for was somebody to fight off the Golden Company.

We couldn't do it by ourselves, of course. The pitch from the Volantene agent was that they were hiring sellswords from all across Essos to gather in a great host and defend Volantene interests in the Rhoyne. Even if the mercenary army might lack the overall cohesion of the Golden Company, the individual units would be made up of high quality mercenaries and the army as a whole would badly outnumber the opposing force.

It was a great opportunity. Besides the gold, we would be able to test ourselves against one of the most well-respected armies on the continent. If we succeeded it would give our reputation a tremendous boost. It would give the men valuable experience. It would give them an enormous shot of confidence. And, of course, you couldn't forget the gold.

Unfortunately, we had arrived in Volantis to find the great mercenary host rather less great than advertised. Besides ourselves, only the Windblown and the Long Lances had shown up. All told, we had between six and seven thousand men to send against the Golden Company. I had already met with the leaders of the other armies and was prepared to go forward with the campaign, but I knew I couldn't hope to succeed without the wholehearted support of the men at this table.

The growth of the Sunset Legion had led to the creation of a new rank. We already had lieutenants, each in command of a one-hundred man century. We had always had me, in command of the whole legion. We now also had a commander for each of the three columns that we formed up into for combat. Petyr, Rodrik, and Walder filled those roles. They had also been with me for the longest out of any of my officers. If I couldn't sell them on the possibility of victory then there was no way that our soldiers could be infused with the confidence needed to win.

"Well, let's talk about the Golden Company. Don't focus on the name or the history. What can they bring to bear against us on the battlefield?"

"Five hundred knights. Five hundred squires," Petyr said, ticking points off on his fingers. "About two thousand light cavalry, and about seven thousand foot troops. And elephants."

That last was said with a bit of trepidation. I couldn't blame him. We'd seen elephants proceeding down the streets of Volantis. Their sheer size made the idea of facing them across the battlefield distinctly unappealing.

"Set aside the elephants for now. What do we have on our side?"

"About a thousand heavy cavalry from the Long Lances. Another thousand light cavalry from the Windblown. A thousand skirmishers from the Windblown. And our men, of course."

"Now, you've all seen the Long Lances and the Windblown handle their horses. Would you say they know what they're doing?"

I slowly looked around the table, focusing on each man in turn. One by one they nodded as they met my gaze.

"Good enough to at least hold off a slightly larger force?"

Again, they nodded.

"Then all we need to do is use that time to drive their infantry from the field."

"Oh, is that all?" Petyr asked, a trace of sarcasm leaking into his voice.

"The Golden Company has never seen something like us before. You've seen what happens when our pike blocks run into an ordinary line of even heavy infantry. It will be completely new to them. I'd wager they won't hold up well."

I saw optimism starting to show in their eyes as I continued. "Worst come to worst, you've seen what our men can do to a cavalry charge. We can hunker down, fend them off, and retreat in good order. At that point I would feel that we had done what we were obligated to do under our contract."

The concepts of honor and contract law are a little fuzzy when it comes to mercenary armies. The main issue was to preserve a reputation that would lead other people to be willing to hire you rather than complying with all the nitpicky details. Breaking a deal and sailing off without even trying to fight looked bad. On the other hand, if you gave a good effort and failed, well, nobody expected mercenaries to agree to any kind of suicide pact.

"I still think we should be free to leave now," Petyr said, frowning. "They tricked us into this mess. It's not fair that they expect us to keep our word after they lied."

I took a moment to appreciate the sight of Petyr Baelish, self-righteous defender of honest dealing. It took a real effort to keep a straight face when I replied.

"Sadly, life is often unfair. If it's any comfort, I anticipate we will be able to extract some concessions given the change in circumstances. Still, there's a real opportunity here if we win."

"You make a victory sound plausible," Rodrik said, leaning forward as he spoke up for the first time, "but what about the elephants?"

"I suppose they are never forgettable," I said, then stifled a sigh as our mismatch in cultural referents rendered my horrible wordplay ineffective. "The Tattered Prince has fought alongside the Golden Company before, and has some ideas for dealing with their elephants. As do I."

At that, I caught the eye of the waiter who had been hovering politely out of earshot and made a come hither gesture. He walked over to us, depositing an elaborately designed carafe in the center of the table and setting a small glass in front of each of us before bowing and walking away. I poured a small measure into each glass and then held my own up in front of me.

"The King."

They repeated the toast, then followed my lead as I tossed back the entire drink at one go. It was a Volantene delicacy that I would describe as bottom of the bottom shelf vodka, plus a little extra alcohol for fun.

I couldn't match the younger men for overall alcohol tolerance, but I had more experience with distilled spirits and knew what was coming. I stayed stoic as the three of them doubled over, coughing. Rodrik was the first to recover.

"Seven hells, man, if you can convince the elephants to drink that they'll run all the way back to Yi Ti."

I smiled and set a glass bottle on the table. The local glass industry prided itself on its artistic pieces, but this showed all the signs of a rush job. It was misshapen and no effort had been made to clean up its color consistency. It couldn't even be said to be particularly practical, looking ready to shatter the first time it hit a hard surface.

"Oh, they won't be drinking it."

ooOoo


	25. Chapter 25

AN: If you ever feel like you have too much spare time I recommend trying to get a motorcycle that's been sitting for a while to start.

ooOoo

I couldn't say that I completely understood what had brought us here. Oh, I knew what Volantis believed, or at least wanted us to believe. Qohor and Norvos treacherously attempting to usurp control of the Rhoyne to fuel their greed and ambition, motivated at the primal level by the knowledge buried deep down in their hearts of their inability to match up to inborn Volantene superiority. It was a moving tale, complete with noble Volantis stepping in to check the unhealthy hubris of its peers. I'd wager that Qohor and Norvos would tell a different story, but there was no denying that they were highly motivated. Hiring the Golden Company made that clear enough.

Even with the help of the premiere sellsword company the other two cities didn't really have a hope of taking Volantis. What they could do, however, was push their influence down the Rhoyne. If everything went just right for them they could take control of the river clear down to one of the alternate mouths and reap the massive benefits of controlling an entire region's trade. More realistically, even taking and holding Selhorys would represent a major shift in the balance of power.

The Golden Company was currently trying to accomplish just that. They had blockaded the river above and below Selhorys and built surrounding entrenchments. The city was hardly defenseless-no city bordering the Dothraki Sea lacked for fortifications-but it wouldn't be able to hold out indefinitely. The siege would be measured in months rather than weeks but the result was inevitable if nobody arrived to relieve the city. That was where we came in.

In a more specific sense what had brought us to this point was a parade of river barges. The men hadn't been completely idle during the trip, as the absence of favorable winds had led to a heavy use of warping. Several of the sailors would row a small boat out ahead of the barge and drop a heavy anchor in place. A team of men then reeled in the anchor chain, moving the boat along at a brisk three or four miles per hour. The presence of our soldiers greatly eased the strain on the barge crews, and being able to take turns walking made the entire experience less draining for my men than marching the whole way. They also got occasional breaks when towpaths allowed for the use of animal power, but even so the men seemed relieved when we reached our destination and they were able to deploy back onto dry land.

In theory Volantis could project power all the way up the Rhoyne to Dagger Lake. In practice that got a little dicey when hostile armies controlled the land around the river. It wasn't like they had a fleet of steamboat gunships at their disposal. The combat strength of their ships were largely bound up in the combat strength of the soldiers on board. When they were outnumbered by the soldiers on shore, sailing became a risky endeavor.

I certainly didn't want our encounter with the Golden Company to begin while we were rushing from ship to shore. Accordingly, we landed about a day's march south of Selhorys. We took our time getting organized and making sure we had ourselves together before setting out towards the city. There was no point in rushing. We weren't going to take the Golden Company by surprise by charging ahead hell for leather. Their scouts were too good to miss something like that, and the Company itself was too well-disciplined to remain disorganized between the arrival of their scouts and our appearance on the battlefield.

The only surprise we would enjoy would come from doing something they didn't expect. To that end, we actually wanted them to have time to prepare. The Tattered Prince had fought alongside the Golden Company and knew what they liked to do when they had their druthers. On the other hand, they could only speculate about our intentions. A particularly keen-eyed scout might notice that our baggage train had leaned towards pigs in acquiring its meat on the hoof, but not even the best scout could read minds.

If you know yourself and know your enemies you will win a hundred battles, while if you know yourself but do not know your enemies you will win one and lose one. I could only hope that the ancient Chinese wisdom held true across time and space. And that this was the one that the Golden Company was due to lose.

Once I was confident that we had anything together we set out toward Selhorys. Again, we were in no hurry. We made camp a half-day's march from the city. It would be an easy enough march to battle the next day, and we were far enough away from the Golden Company that it would be very difficult for them to do any kind of raid in force. We expected-hoped, perhaps, but with good reason-that the Golden Company would focus on preparing to meet us in battle tomorrow rather than try anything daring.

When we were done making camp I made my way to the Tattered Prince's command tent. Irrys Marohr, leader of the Long Lances, arrived at about the same time that I did, summoned by my messenger. The Tattered Prince invited us in and dismissed his aides.

"You wish to go over our plans one more time?"

I shook my head. "No, I think we all know it all by heart by now."

"You have changes to propose?"

I shook my head again.

"Why are we here if not to prepare?" Irrys asked. He sounded more curious than angry.

"Honestly? I was hoping for some conversation. I find it helps put me in the right frame of mind before a chancy battle."

I could have informal talks with the officers of the Sunset Legion. I could even be friendly towards them. But I was always their Captain. I was always honest with them about the risks we were facing, but I couldn't fully air my doubts or fears without risking undermining morale. In a broader sense, it was always in the back of my mind that I was their superior and that I couldn't say anything that would compromise that relationship. Meeting with peers, even from different companies, opened up the possibility of a more frank and open talk.

I could use such a thing to settle my nerves. I'm a bit of a talker when I'm worried. In our previous battles there had been moments of excitement and nervousness, sure, but there had rarely been any real doubt as to the outcome. I had walked into them feeling complete confidence that we would eventually carry the day. Now, though? I thought we would win, but it was far from a sure thing.

In keeping with the spirit of honesty and companionship, I had brought drinks. I pulled an oversized bottle from my satchel and set it on the camp table. Three glasses soon surrounded it.

"I hope that's not that Volantene swill you've been buying up," the Tattered Prince said. I smiled and shook my head.

"Not just that. I think you'll find this is a more pleasant cocktail than the one we'll be sharing tomorrow with the Golden Company," I said, pouring a generous measure into each glass. "Volantene spirits, orange juice, and a healthy splash of that sweet beet soup they love so much."

I live by two easy to remember rules for mixed drinks. First, citrus juice will mask any number of sins. Here that meant keeping a manservant around to squeeze oranges instead of a quick trip to the fridge but I had a manservant, so that was all right. Second, sugar makes everything better. I had neglected to pack a bottle of simple syrup with me on my transdimensional adventure, but the Volantene beet "soup" was the next best thing.

The Tattered Prince and Irrys both looked askance at the brown liquid that was the result of my efforts, but they followed my lead in toasting our upcoming victory. The first cautious sips produced surprised murmurs and more enthusiastic follow-up swigs. If the whole sellsword thing didn't work out perhaps I could pursue a career as a bartender. Hells, if I could get a drink named after me it could be a better path to lasting fame. It worked for Tom Collins, after all.

I waited until the drinks had been drained halfway and then refilled before I rekindled the conversation.

"We all know what we plan to do tomorrow. I must admit that I am curious as to the why. What made you two decide to go to war against the Golden Company? Nobody else would. Not for all the gold Volantis was throwing around."

The Tattered Prince inclined his head to acknowledge the question. He then turned to look expectantly at Irrys, waiting for him to answer first. I followed his lead and studied the commander of the Long Lances. Somehow in the back of my mind a part of me expected a group associated with horses to be made up of a bunch of modern jockey type little guys. That gave me a moment of cognitive dissonance every time I saw Irrys, who was about as far from that archetype as you could get. He towered over me and rivalled Robert Baratheon in the breadth of his shoulders. He certainly wasn't somebody I'd like to find myself across from in a joust.

For all of his intimidating size, though, he had a friendly way about him. He had black hair shot through with grey and a bushy black beard that couldn't cover all of the smile lines creased into his face. I suppose when you go through life bigger and stronger than everybody else you have a lot of reason to be happy.

Irrys was from Lorath. While I was fairly fluent in the Braavosi dialect of Low Valyrian my understanding of the dialect of the neighboring cities was still a bit spotty. The Tattered Prince had been able to accommodate me by switching dialects. Irrys, not so much.

"After last battle I say: Next battle will be beside those men, not against!"

We all toasted that sentiment. I had had a little trepidation when I had first found out that we would be fighting together. The Tattered Prince hadn't been worried and Irrys had told me from the beginning that there were no hard feelings. Even so, I was glad to see more proof that he had wholeheartedly embraced the change from enemies to allies.

After another round of drinks Irrys took on a more serious expression as he continued.

"I hear again and again of knights. Glorious knights of Reach. Glorious knights of Golden Company. Songs. Stories. Always knights!" Irrys said, bringing a fist down on the table. "We ride strong horses! We have strong arms! Crush knights and bards write songs about Long Lances!"

Another toast, and we turned our attention to the Tattered Prince. He looked as cool and collected as ever, to all appearances unaffected by all of the alcohol he had packed away.

"I know from experience that the Golden Company is made up of men just like any other men. That elephants are animals just like horses, only larger and harder to control," he said, then paused to take a sip of his drink. "Why should I not accept such a generous contract to fight a group of men? It is, after all, my profession."

I raised an eyebrow at that. Irrys went further, reaching out and clapping the Tattered Prince on the shoulder.

"Men like other men, yes. But Golden Company not like other companies. This is special, no?"

There was a long moment of silence before the Tattered Prince gave a grudging nod. "The Golden Company conquered a Free City once. All they did with it was carry off what the claimed was their due. Still, though, I would like to face men capable of such a thing to see how I measure up."

That made a certain kind of sense. If he were to decide to take the Windblown and attack Pentos on his own initiative it would be an all or nothing affair. If he succeeded, he would be Prince of the city in truth. If he failed, he would be completely ruined. Hiring on as a sellsword didn't carry the same risk, even against a fearsome opponent. A loss against the Golden Company, provided it didn't turn into a complete rout, couldn't harm his reputation in the same way. It was a brutal form of stress testing, but this was often a brutal world.

Apparently satisfied with this answer, Irrys turned to address me.

"And you? What makes Blackfish swim up Rhoyne?"

I stared at my drink for a moment, swirling it around as though I could read an answer in my glass. Why had I signed up for this fight? I could lay out any number of logical reasons. I had done just that with my lieutenants. Somehow, though, in this moment that didn't feel right. After hearing two answers that came straight from the heart, there was only one thing I could say.

"To be the best, you have to beat the best."

ooOoo


	26. Chapter 26

AN: Sorry about the delay

ooOoo

We crested a hill near Selhorys to find the Golden Company arrayed before us with mathematical precision. I had to admit, it was impressive. They had known we were coming for a few days, true, but they hadn't had more than an hour's warning of where we were headed in particular. Despite that, they were well enough organized to march onto a parade ground and put on a show. It was a sobering reminder that these men knew their business.

The ground they had chosen for the battle was flat enough to serve as a parade ground in a pinch. Today it would be killing ground. There would be no defensive positions to hamper the efforts of the victorious army. There would be no broken terrain to impede the advance of the Golden Company's elephants. There would also be no real advantage for us to try to march around and approach from a different angle. The Golden Company was not looking for a chess match of siege and counter siege tactics. They were offering a single decisive battle, confident in their ability to win the day.

The early morning had seen a light sprinkling of rain. Not enough to affect anybody's footing, although it had come as a relief to some hot and dusty soldiers on the march. The clouds had since burned away and the bright sunlight reflected off the armor and the jewelry worn by the Golden Company, giving the whole formation a sort of shining halo.

The Golden Company had placed their war elephants in the front of their formation. Between and around them were their masses of archers, crossbowmen, and other missile troops. Their heavy infantry was organized into tightly packed squares behind, the sun glinting off their shields and their short spears just visible from this distance. Light infantry strung out on either side to form a skirmish line, while they were holding their cavalry in reserve.

All of this was consistent with what the Tattered Prince had told us to expect. The Golden Company liked to wear down its enemies with volley after volley of missile fire. Once their opponent was sufficiently demoralized, they would unleash their war elephants to charge and destroy any remaining cohesive enemy units. The heavy infantry would follow, smashing into the resulting chaos with coordinated force. When the enemy was decisively put to flight, the cavalry would be released to run them down.

If the plan was predictable, it was because it worked. The Golden Company had a sterling track record, littered with examples of opposing companies destroyed after a single engagement. In all the time the Tattered Prince marched with them, he never saw their tactics turned back on them.

Our lines, by contrast, looked a little ragged. The Sunset Legion was as well disciplined as ever in our usual three staggered columns, although many of our halbierdiers had traded in their polearms for lit torches and now marched near the front of their columns. The first two columns had each also acquired two new leading rows made up of little teams of Windblown. Each team featured a collared pig controlled by two lines held by men marching on either side of it. In front of that group were three men carrying oversized shields. The rear half of the pigs had been smeared with a combination of pine resin and lamp oil.

On physical attributes alone the elephant was a phenomenal killing machine. Its thick skin shrugged off all but the most formidable attacks while its massive size and strength meant that it could trample men underfoot while hardly breaking stride. The elephant was even capable of running down men who attempted to flee before it. The only weak point lay between those oversized ears.

The Tattered Prince had observed that elephants seemed to fear pigs and fire. We had elected to try both.

While setting pigs on fire would certainly be entertaining, as a military weapon they were somewhat imprecise. In order for them to be useful they would need to be fairly close to the enemy before we lit things off. That thought, and a rousing drum beat, sent us marching into bow range of our enemies.

Walking through volleys of arrow fire is a unique experience. The arrows hissed down around me, punctuated by clangs as they hit armor or soft thuds as they slammed home in the dirt. It wasn't dangerous, exactly, not with proper armor on, but it still wore away at me. And I was catching a much lower volume of fire than the men at the front ranks. To their credit, none of the Sunset Legion broke stride as they advanced through the incoming storm.

The initial volleys were fired from too far away for direct shots. Instead our enemies were lobbing arrows up into the air with the hope of unnerving us and perhaps landing a lucky hit. Really, though, there weren't many weak points to be had. Even the unfortunate arrow to the knee was unlikely to penetrate the gambeson armor each Sunset Legionnaire was wearing and inflict any real damage. That's what it was there for. I certainly wasn't making my men march around Essos wrapped in thick quilts because it made for good athletic wear. It was a soldier's saying that was old by the time I arrived on Westeros: if you're comfortable, you're wrong.

A few men stumbled and fell under the onslaught of arrow fire, but as far as I could tell they were all able to scramble back to their feet and get back in line as the formation continued marching forward. As we got closer, the character of the attack changed. Instead of launching great volleys from a distance, the Golden Company archers were now taking aimed shots at individual targets. The vast majority of these still bounced ineffectively off of armor, but saw a few strike home in elbow joints and one unlucky pikeman took an arrow through the eye.

By now we had closed within a hundred paces or so of the enemy lines, and the elephants stirred into action. Our men kept marching, the gap now closing quicker thanks to the elephants' deceptive ground-eating lope. I was just starting to feel anxious when I saw that Petyr, commanding the first column, had come to the same conclusion: it was time for us to strike back. The shouted command was just reaching my ears when the torches in the column were lowered in near unison.

Each pig lit off with a pillar of flame. A second later their shrieking squeals reached us. Many of the men around me flinched despite knowing what was coming. The effect on the elephants was more dramatic. By and large they ceased their forward motion, and several of them began to edge backwards.

Once each pig was well and truly on fire its surrounding team of Windblown started running forward. As soon as they had worked up some momentum they dropped the leashes and split off to the sides. The idea was to get the pigs moving forward in a straight line while the Windblown trickled off to reinforce the Tattered Prince's reserves. It worked pretty well. One of the pigs started running around in circles, squealing its head off. Another pair ran off to the side. But the bulk of them kept running on the same course, heading straight for the elephants as they tried to outrun the flames on their backs.

The smell of well-cooked bacon started wafting over the battlefield. More tactically relevant, several elephants turned to run in the face of the charge of the flaming pigs. Many of the Golden Company's archers had shifted their aim to the animal attackers, but to little effect. On most days an arrow wound was the worst thing an animal had suffered and inflicting one would make it run away. When the animal was on fire an arrow barely registered. Only killing or crippling hits would do anything. A couple of pigs went down, turning into delicious smelling funeral pyres, but most of them continued onward.

At this point one heroic elephant was still moving forward. A good chunk of them were in full retreat, while the majority were stuck in place, wavering between the orders of their handlers and their primal fears. The battle hung in the balance as a glass sphere arced out of the line of Legionnaires and smashed into the face of the advancing elephant.

The first time I was told that Volantis is a city where one can buy anything I assumed it was self-promotional puffery. I had maintained that healthy skepticism when a merchant who had heard of my interest in buying all things flammable approached me with a promise to access to a certain special substance. I started to become a believer when he led me down into the basement of his shop and through a doorway to a small room. Its floor was covered with sand several inches thick and in the center of the room was a pillar supporting an elevated aquarium. Instead of aquatic wildlife, the water was filled with small glass vials, each carefully attached to the glass at a healthy separation from its neighbor.

The price for a single vial and a specially outfitted carry pack was obscene. But that was only money. The real problem was finding a soldier crazy enough to carry the thing. That was when I remembered the crossbowman who had shown such zeal for reckless slaughter in our previous two battles. It was only after he had volunteered-insisted, really-that I made the purchase.

Once the pigs were lit he would have removed the vial from his pack, slotted it home in a specially made glass ball filled with lamp oil, and then made the throw of his life. All of that money and effort paid off beautifully as the glass shattered against the elephant's forehead.

Wildfire doesn't need a fuse. It barely needs an excuse. It could have been the stress of impact, the elephant's body heat, the touch of the sun... anything. In the very instant of contact it burst into an eerie green flame, eagerly feeding off the lamp oil and the elephant's flesh. The elephant shrieked, sounding almost human, then wheeled about and stampeded away from us.

Petyr gave the enemy a moment to stare at the unmistakable glow of wildfire before commencing the barrage. The follow up projectiles were not quite as insanely dangerous as the first. Glass bottles, filled with a combination of lamp oil and high proof alcohol and stuffed with rags that had themselves been doused in booze. The rag was touched to the nearest torch before the bottle was to be chucked in the direction of the enemy. Most of our crossbowmen had traded in their usual weapon for a bandolier of grenades which they threw with gleeful abandon.

The bottles crashed against the elephants. The bottles crashed against the ground. Some of the bottles crashed against enemy archers. All of them that I saw lit up beautifully. The elephants were in full retreat, stampeding in mass panic with many of them sped along by fires burning on their backsides. The bottles that hit the ground created eerie pools of flame among the damp grass. The unfortunate archers that were lit on fire just screamed.

It's probably worth mentioning at this point that Volantis offered a few different varieties of high proof liquor. I had chosen the one that happened to contain impurities that caused it to burn with a green flame. Now, logic would dictate that an entire company of hundreds of men couldn't possibly be armed with that much wildfire. Moving that much of the stuff without burning to death is basically impossible, not to mention the expense. Sharper eyes would also notice that the wildfire grenade had had no fuse while the later grenades were lit on fire before being thrown.

The thing is, logic tends to fall by the wayside when you've been set on fire. Or face the imminent prospect of same.

With the elephants in full retreat, and seeing the terror and suffering of the men on fire, my men responded as you would expect: by trying to set more men on fire. The next few rounds of grenades were targeted directly at the formations of archers. By now many of the archers had given up on killing the flaming pigs as a lost cause and had started trying to pick off our soldiers. Their aim seemed significantly worse, no doubt affected by the screams of the dying and being under attack themselves.

I gave a signal and my drummer sounded the general advance. The barrage stopped and the Legion made ready to attack. While I was sure the ongoing rain of fire was having a wonderful effect on enemy morale, it was something of a waste of ammunition. The enemy archers were never going to hold the battlefield. Indeed, as soon as my men brought their pikes to bear and started to advance the archers began to retreat.

After all of the stress and shock of the battle what should have been a smooth withdrawl instead became a pell mell scramble for safety. The archers had more or less ceased firing as they raced to reach place the bulk of their heavy infantry between themselves and us. The infantry itself was rather the worse for wear. The fleeing elephants had carved great furrows in their ranks. In some cases the Golden Company men had managed to scramble out of the way of their war beasts, while in others they had been trampled over. They were trying to sort themselves out and get back in good order while a stream of lightly armored men, some burned and some still burning, ran by in a near panic.

And, of course, instead of attacking a demoralized enemy worn down by arrow fire and elephant charge, they were going to have to defend themselves against a well drilled, cohesive formation of pikemen on the charge, men who already had the taste of victory on their tongues. It was almost enough to make you feel sorry for them.

Instead, I found my feelings matching Petyr's, shouted out as he urged his column on: "Get moving! We're going to rip those bastards' guts out and feed them to the pigs!"

ooOoo


	27. Chapter 27

AN: I should mention that I appreciate each and every review.

ooOoo

The sun still shone but its light was dimmed by the smoky haze shrouding the battlefield. Here and there puddles of lamp oil were still alight, flickering a sullen orange now that the alcohol had burned away. Dead pigs were dotted around here and there as was the occasional dead soldier, but by far the most noticeable corpse was the elephant that had absorbed the first grenade. From its shoulders down it looked perfectly fine. Its head, however, was nothing but a shining white skull. Everything else had been burned away and even now its eye sockets were lit by eerie tendrils of green flame reaching out from within.

Footing was still reasonably good despite the mess the Golden Company's archers had made of the field when they fled, and the Sunset Legion advanced at our usual clip. The drums beating out the marching pace sounded oddly muted. It could have been the smoke, but more likely was a result of the adrenaline coursing through my system. All of my inherited instincts wanted me to spur my horse on to wade into the enemy, cut them down and inspire my men.

Instead I took a deep breath to steady myself. The usual smells of sweat, blood, and shit hovered over the battlefield, but the smoke carried some discordant notes. The Volantine booze burned slightly sweet, while the pine-resin smeared pigs had left behind a scent that made me hungry for some maple-smoked bacon. Shaking my head to dismiss the errant thought I turned to address Rodrik Lolliston, seated on a horse that was walking placidly next to mine. The Essosi nags hardly measured up to proper Riverland chargers, but at least they weren't hysterical at the sounds and smells of war.

"Look sharp, now. Your young eyes will see better than mine through the smoke."

He turned to me, surprise evident despite the helmet covering much of his face. "Look sharp for what? Surely they've almost broken?"

I shook my head. I couldn't blame him for thinking it: any of the other companies we've fought would have fled the field by now. The only way to learn some things was to make naive assumptions and have them proven wrong. My job was to make sure Rodrik didn't get anybody killed as he learned how to lead an army.

"The Golden Company are made of sterner stuff than that. We've put them on the back foot, but they still have plenty of fight left in them."

We soon came into our first contact with the Golden Company's heavy infantry. Through the haze of smoke I could make out a relatively small group of a hundred or so men, separated from their friends but maintaining good discipline. A jolt of excitement raced through the whole legion at the prospect of coming to grips with the enemy and Petyr's column surged forward.

Just about the whole front line of the Golden Company was bowled over in the initial clash. The superior reach of our pikes meant that each of the men in the front line had to absorb the impact of four or five charging legionnaires, while their spears were unable to reach our men. The second line fared better, perhaps one man in three being knocked off his feet, and the third line held firm, grinding our column to a temporary halt as they caught pikes on shields as best they could and started a pushing contest.

I saw many great feats of arms performed by the soldiers of the Golden Company. One man batted aside three spear thrusts coming in from the left with his shield, fended off another from the right with his spear, then dropped his spear and grabbed the pike of the man before him, yanking the legionnaire out of formation. He stepped forward, drawing a sword from his belt as he closed within ten feet of his target, then fell backwards as a pike he hadn't seen took him in the chest, almost lifting him off his feet with the shock of impact.

Another man had lost his shield and wielded his spear like a quarterstaff, the shaft blurring in front of him as he fended off a constant barrage of attacks. He called to the men beside him to use the openings he was creating, and they did, charging forward only to be felled by pikes that had attacked from father back in the formation. A moment later the man who had first caught my eye was downed by a pike that had slipped past his defenses.

All up and down the line it was the same story. Tremendous individual skill at arms displayed again and again, and every time rendered ineffective by the cold math of the pike formation: twenty feet is longer than eight feet, and five men attacking at once is a lot more than one. A few of my men were tripped up, but the Golden Company spearmen just couldn't close to an effective range to really put a hurt on anybody. Lines of spearmen were knocked down one by one, and they finally retreated after about half their men were out of the fight. They pulled back in good order, and I was thankful to see that my men were well disciplined enough to resist the temptation to try and chase after the retreating enemy. There was still plenty of heavy infantry out there for us to fight.

The story was much the same for the next company we encountered, and the next. After that, though, we ran into a sizable contingent of spearmen that managed to stalemate Petyr's column. The impact from the second column sent them reeling back, but still they held. The basic math of the situation was on our side, but I still worried about what the Golden Company could do with the weight of numbers evened out. It was hard to tell through the smoke, but it seemed like this was most of their remaining heavy infantry. If they managed to close in and start inflicting serious casualties on our column I wasn't sure how well our relatively untested men would hold up.

There was a great deal of yelling and a tremendous noise from the clash of arms. I was intently focused on what I expected to be the decisive moment of the battle, so much so that I didn't realize Rodrik had been trying to get my attention until I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned to see him staring at me... no, past me, his eyes wide.

"Captain! Look!"

I followed his gaze and saw what a gust of wind had revealed to his sharp eyes: the smoke had parted to reveal the knights of the Golden Company in full charge, headed directly at Petyr's flank. My blood ran cold. If the cavalry took Petyr's men in the flank all unawares, the result would be catastrophic. They couldn't maneuver to face the charge directly while they were in the thick of the push and pull with the Golden Company's spearmen. Hell, in the heat of combat I couldn't be sure they would follow my orders at all. I could probably get them to a static pincushion formation, but while that would fend off the cavalry charge adopting such a static pose was just asking for death by inches from the opposing infantry.

I was about to bite the bullet and give the order when the knights broke off their charge, instead beginning to pivot to their left. I couldn't believe what I was seeing at first. Were they planning to ride around our formation and try to attack us from behind? I was still mulling over the question when the Long Lances materialized out of the concealing smoke, smashing into the still turning knights like the fist of an angry god.

It may have been my imagination, but I thought I could hear Irrys's war cry over the crash of battle. I turned back to Rodrik.

"Order the reserves forward."

Irrys's enthusiasm was all well and good, but the knights of the Golden Company knew their business. Even caught somewhat unawares, I'd put even money on them winning the cavalry battle. I couldn't change the outcome of that fight. What I could do was use the time I'd been given to make sure that it didn't matter.

The reserve column turned the tide. The addition of a large body of fresh men with blood in their eye always has a salutary effect on allied forces, and the Sunset Legion pushed forward with renewed strength as the reserves entered the battle. The Golden Company, meanwhile, had seen their salvation arrive in the form of their cavalry and then snatched away by the Long Lances. They had been suffering horrible losses in their efforts to close with the Sunset Legion, and as they were forced backwards they finally reached the breaking point.

A horn echoed over the battlefield, sounding a repeating series of notes. The Golden Company began to withdraw. We pressed forward, but they knew their business. A screen of spearmen would delay our progress, then fall back only to be replaced by a new screen of troops. All the while, the main body of troops receded further and further into the distance.

We finally broke free of the smoke, and I could see where the retreat was headed: the broad stone bridge over the Rhoyne just downstream of Selhorys. A stream of skirmishers and archers was already pouring across. We pushed forward with renewed effort, but continued to be slowed by the Golden Company's organized retreat. A moment later a stream of horsemen broke out of the smoke, all bearing the colors of the Golden Company. They made a token effort to threaten our flanks, forcing us to halt for a moment, then broke off and rode for the bridge.

By the time we finally reached the bridge, the vast bulk of the Golden Company was on the other side of the river, continuing their retreat upstream. All that was left behind was a group of a hundred men, lined up shoulder to shoulder ten deep across the bridge. They made no move to retreat and showed no interest in surrender. It was clear that they intended to fight to the last man.

We obliged.

ooOoo

When the bridge was cleared there was no question of an immediate pursuit. The Golden Company was well out of sight. Catching them with our foot troops was impossible, and considering the discipline they had shown sending our cavalry out after them by themselves would be the height of foolishness. Besides, we needed a pause to get ourselves sorted out.

The aftermath of any battle is a tremendous mess. With all the flammables we had been throwing around, this one was even more so. Besides accounting for our casualties-fairly light, considering-we also had to loot the bodies, track down what had happened with the elephants, and decide what to do with our prisoners. The Golden Company was well-equipped. Together with their habit of keeping their personal wealth on them in the form of precious metals and jewelry, it made for lucrative bodies. It also meant that many of the men who had been knocked out of the fight had survived the experience.

For the most part I left that business to others. The prisoners could be handed off to Selhorys, to be ransomed out or simply released at the cessation of hostilities. I'd make sure I got my cut of the proceeds of course, but otherwise it didn't particularly concern me. There was one exception, though.

I was reviewing reports in my tent when the tent flap was thrust aside and Petyr burst in. He was followed by two of his men. They were escorting a prisoner between them, a man who looked rather the worse for wear even before taking into account the fact that he had been stripped to his smallclothes and had his hands tied behind his back. The most distinctive thing about him was his shock of red hair. It wasn't until he looked up and glared at me, though, that I felt a thrill of recognition.

The odd thing about it was that I didn't recall anybody from the books matching his description. Brynden certainly knew him, though. I suppressed a shiver at the odd dissonance and looked to Petyr for an explanation.

"This cunt led the last stand at the bridge," Petyr spat out. "They killed Dallen and Jarvas!"

Well, this was a little awkward. On the one hand, it was a good sign that Petyr was attached to his men. And that our casualties had been light enough that each one was still keenly felt. On the other hand, Petyr's obvious enthusiasm for a spot of revenge murder was troubling. On the gripping hand, at least he hadn't taken the prisoner out back and knifed the guy without letting me know what was going on.

That feeling of being a mafia don was coming on strong once again. I did my best to keep my expression neutral and my gaze flat.

"We killed rather more of them, I think," I said. "We are at war, after all."

Petyr deflated when he realized that I wasn't going to say anything more. Without a word he turned and slugged the prisoner in the gut. The man grunted, but didn't say anything. Petyr drew back his arm for another blow, but stopped when I cleared my throat. He had the good grace to look a little embarrassed when he turned back to face me.

"Now, Petyr, you should show a little restraint when you've captured a lord. Although I suppose Griffin's Roost isn't a lordly holding these days."

Petyr looked back in shock, then turned back to me. "That's Jon Connington?"

I nodded.

Connington himself didn't say anything. He'd been glaring at me this whole time. The glare had intensified a bit when I made it clear that I knew who he was. He certainly seemed to have all of the force of personality that Brynden remembered. I idly wondered what had happened to render him irrelevant before the books kicked off. Probably got himself killed leading some grand battle with the Golden Company as part of another character's backstory. Well, just because I wasn't going to kill him out of hand didn't mean I couldn't fuck with him.

"He'd be the Hand of the King right now if Rhaegar hadn't been as much of a gaping cunt as his old man."

ooOoo


	28. Chapter 28

AN: Currently shooting for a Sunday/Wednesday-ish update schedule.

ooOoo

Jon Connington had been quite the rising star once upon a time. A talented fighter in his own right, a skilled and energetic leader of men, and a close friend to the crown prince. He and Rhaegar had been practically joined at the hip. Or, some had it, joined more intimately than that. In any event, Robert's Rebellion had been his making and his undoing.

Connington would never have been given high office under Aerys in peacetime. The old madman was far too paranoid about being usurped by his son. It took a war he was on the verge of losing for Aerys to put competence ahead of loyalty. By the same token, Aerys wouldn't have lived forever. If he had died and Rhaegar had peacefully ascended to the throne, Connington could have been made the King's Hand without an ultimatum hanging over his head.

And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Connington had taken his shot at power and done his level best to capture Robert and end the rebellion. He failed and was promptly sent into exile. Apparently he had made something of himself in Essos. Not so high a rank that the Golden Company was unwilling to lose him, but high enough that he had been given a key command. And who knows, maybe he insisted on leading the rearguard. He could have acquired a taste for lost causes in fighting for Rhaegar.

The insult to his beloved prince got a reaction out of him where Petyr's assault had failed. Connington thrashed about wildly, a snarl on his face, as he did his level best to break free and kill me. Fortunately, Petyr had chosen a pair of stout lads to act as guards. They kept a solid grip on him until he gave up on trying to break free. Though physically he sagged in defeat, the glare he shot me was still filled with murderous intent.

"And I would have respected the Blackfish were he not a traitor."

Petyr stepped forward, drawing his hand back to slug Connington again. He stepped back when I held up a hand to calm him down.

"Now, now, it's not treason if you win," I said. "Besides, come to that, Aerys broke faith when he burned his loyal vassals to death."

"Only a king can judge the actions of a king," Connington replied, his enthusiasm undiminished.

A brief note on Westerosi politics. I was in no way, shape, or form interested in bringing democracy to the Seven Kingdoms. I'd seen what happened when you tried to introduce democracy to people who weren't particularly interested in it, and I didn't even have jet planes or armored tanks on my side. Besides, the political system in Westeros wasn't that bad by medieval standards. There were laws in place limiting what the aristocracy could do and feudal obligations were in fact reciprocal. Now, were those laws enforced even handedly against the politically connected? Not really, but that's more of a problem with human nature than with monarchy. Someday I might like to help introduce a local Magna Carta if I got the chance, but for the most part I wanted to stay out of politics entirely.

All that said, Connington's remark managed to rouse my inner populist. I did my best to resist the temptation of being essentially a law unto myself when running the Sunset Legion, and I didn't appreciate the suggestion that it was a right and proper way for a monarch to behave.

"I'd say Robert found Rhaegar's arguments lacking and passed a final judgment."

Connington had begun to sag a bit with fatigue, but the mention of Robert jolted him back upright and brought a furious light to his eyes. "The usurper is no true king."

I shook my head, then turned to address Petyr with my reply. "Isn't it amazing how much wiggle room you can create with one little word? Robert sits on the Iron Throne. The Lords Paramount pay his taxes and march at his command. He's killed everyone who seriously contested his right to rule. That's as much as Aegon ever did, and Robert didn't have any dragons. That's a true enough king for me."

I had turned back to Connington and saw him sag as I finished my little speech. I didn't kid myself that I had persuaded him. More likely he had only been running on that initial rush of anger, and now that his energy had run out he had no wish to continue debating for the sake of debating. He did still have one last spark of defiance in him, though.

"I suppose you'll march me back to your king and beg him for a reward."

I couldn't help it. I laughed out loud at that. It took me a moment to get it out of my system and wipe the tear from my eye.

"I hardly any need any reward from Robert and, to be honest, I doubt your name has crossed his mind for years," I said. "Now, will you give your parole?"

He stared at me blankly.

"Well?" I asked, a little impatient. "Will you swear not to try to escape, not to harm any of my men, and not to sabotage our war effort for the duration of hostilities?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Well, it's a question of whether you'd like to stay with us and have relatively free run of the camp. If you'd rather be with the rest of the prisoners in Selhorys, there's no need to do anything."

I didn't expect him to be keen on being held prisoner by the people he'd been besieging. I intended to intervene to ensure that everybody we turned over survived the experience, but realistically there was only so much I could do about the conditions of anybody imprisoned. It didn't take him long to make his choice.

"Very well."

"Make your oath, then."

He did. Never let it be said that Jon Connington can't manage a nice turn of phrase. When he finished I nodded at the men who were holding him captive.

"Let him go, boys."

They complied.

"Dig his personal effects out of the rest of the captured equipment and keep them somewhere secure. Petyr, see to getting him issued a tent and some food, and make sure our men are aware of his status."

Petyr looked stricken at the turn things had taken. "Captain, I-"

"If you require any clarification of your orders," I interrupted, "we can discuss them tonight. Now, if there are no immediate concerns?"

There weren't. The little group bustled out of my tent, leaving me alone with my paperwork.

ooOoo

It wasn't long after sunset that I was interrupted by a knock against the pole in the center of my tent's entry way. I had finished with all of the urgent paperwork by that time and was working on my personal journal, so I didn't feel any guilt about putting it aside to focus on the figure of Petyr Baelish. He looked a bit nervous, as well he might. It was one thing to react with surprise when an order was given, but quite another to continue to press a commanding officer for his reasoning.

I did my best to put him at ease, gesturing for him to come inside and take a seat. I pulled a pair of glasses from beneath the table along with a decanter. Each glass received a generous couple of fingers of clear liquid. I had worked with a clever man in Volantis to put together a rudimentary charcoal filter that had resulted in something more drinkable than their typical rotgut.

"I imagine you're wondering why I didn't have Jon Connington killed out of hand?"

He nodded, then brightened up as a thought occurred to him. "I know a couple of lads who can take care of things, if you wanted him handled more... discreetly."

I shook my head as I slid a glass across the table. "No, not now that he's put himself under my protection. Here, drink this. I don't like to talk philosophy when I'm completely sober."

He looked down at the glass, then back up at me. "I didn't know you'd studied at the Citadel."

"Fuck those dusty cocksuckers. I'm talking about a personal philosophy," I said, picking up my drink and swirling it for a moment before knocking back a slug. "Petyr, if you go through life without thinking about what you're doing there's a real chance that you could wake up one day and realize you've become a giant cunt."

His eyes widened at that, although I couldn't tell if it was in reaction to my sage advice or the salty language. In any event, he followed my lead and took a drink from his glass. He did a manful job hiding his reaction, but he still hadn't quite got the knack of handling hard alcohol.

"Now, Jon Connington... a septon would tell you that there's no need to worry now that he's sworn before the gods not to harm us."

Petyr snorted. "A children's tale."

"A merchant would tell you that a reputation for keeping your word will help you strike deals in the future."

Petyr didn't say anything, but he did look interested as I continued.

"An old veteran would tell you that today's captor could be tomorrow's captive."

I paused to top off our glasses, then leaned back and waved my hand dismissively.

"All of that just goes to what other people think. And sometimes that matters. But when it comes to the important stuff, you're the one that has to live with it. Some things you don't do just because they're wrong."

I wanted to try and educate Petyr, but I was also working through my reasoning for my own benefit. Compared to what I was used to, my new position offered me a lot more opportunities to kill inconvenient people. For the most part it didn't really come up as I wasn't particularly murderous. Jon Connington, though, was the kind of bright spark that had future trouble written all over him. I could justify killing him either in defense of the realm or based on my foreknowledge. In order for a guy like him not to have figured into canon he must have died before the books started, so executing him would in a way just be following the natural order of things. It still didn't sit right with me, though.

As to Petyr, my goals were twofold. First of all, I didn't want him to stab me in the back. I thought I was pretty far along in that goal after giving him a taste of military leadership and military success. Almost as important, though, I wanted to help him turn into the grown up version of the bright kid Brynden remembered rather than the horrible villain I had read about. To that end I really needed to steer him clear of any kind of utilitarianism. Petyr Baelish was going to be able to accomplish a great many things without getting caught, which meant that I didn't want him to be constrained only by cost-benefit calculations.

"More children's stories," Petyr grumbled. The drink must have been getting to him.

"Strong words from somebody who only lives because of a Stark's sense of right and wrong."

Petyr sat up straight and flushed red. I'm not sure he had realized he had been speaking out loud. "Catelyn-"

I held up a hand, cutting him off. "Cat is a sweet girl, but if you think Brandon ever restrained himself on her account, you're a fool. Killing you in that duel would have been pure murder. If there's one thing the Starks have drilled into them it's not to kill anyone who doesn't deserve it."

Petyr remained silent. I sighed and took another drink.

"Think about Connington's nonsense: only a king can judge a king. Only a king can pass judgment on another king, but that's just a practical restraint. Anybody can judge a king," I said, locking my gaze on Petyr's. "The Father gave us all a soul, to know right from wrong. And he gave us all reason, to turn those instincts into rules. You'll be a lot happier with yourself in the end if you make an honest effort to live by those rules instead of trying to rationalize whatever you want to do."

Petyr was silent for a long moment. "What's your rule, then?"

I took a slow sip of my drink while I thought. "My rule... never fuck over somebody who doesn't have it coming."

"How do you know who has it coming?"

"Practice."

He chuckled a bit at that. I held out some hope that he was taking this at least a little bit to heart. "So Connington..."

"What's he done? Fought for Aerys? Half the kingdom did that, and most of them still have their holdings. Dreamed about kicking Robert off the throne?" I said, shaking my head. "That's nothing worth an execution. He hasn't murdered anyone, he's never raped anyone, hells, as far as I know he's never cheated at dice."

"So he doesn't have anything coming."

I nodded. "If that changes, well, it changes. But until then we treat him like any other noble prisoner."

Petyr looked down at his drink in contemplation. Maybe I was getting through to him. Maybe he was just humoring a maudlin old man. It was hard to tell. Worst come to worst, I could just force him to act like a decent human being until it became a habit.

ooOoo


	29. Chapter 29

AN: While I might suggest inventions that would benefit me personally, I'm not wandering around trying to be Johnny Invention-seed. And that's not even getting into the limitations on my own abilities.

ooOoo

The day after the battle was busy. Despite my best efforts at delegation, the city fathers of Selhorys refused to finalize the prisoner-handling arrangements without speaking to a company commander. Since the Tattered Prince and Irrys Marohr were off chasing down members of the Golden Company who hadn't managed to make it across the bridge the duty fell to me. So my morning was shot.

The meeting wasn't that bad, honestly. The people of Selhorys were grateful for our appearance, not to mention impressed that we had managed to drive off the Golden Company. They put on a touching victory parade in our honor, and the town fathers were generous in their efforts to slip me an under the table reward. If I hadn't been happily married-and morally opposed to pleasure slaves-the negotiations could have dragged on all day.

Settling the handling of prisoners was relatively straightforward. I had tasked Petyr with putting together a list of reasonable ransom demands for each prisoner and he'd come through for me. I explained to the city council that my primary concern was that I didn't want to face these men on the battlefield during this campaign. Ideally they should wait to ransom them until the war was over, but if they couldn't wait then the men should at least be shipped down to Volantis before being released. With our control over the river traffic that should keep them out of action for long enough to suit my purposes.

They dickered a bit over who would get what percentage of the ransom paid out, but the basic terms remained unchanged. One key point that I emphasized was that we expected to get paid the same amount whether the men were ransomed or died in prison. I could only assume that there would be some score-settling once members of an invading army were helpless prisoners of the city they'd been attacking. I couldn't stop it completely, but I could provide a bit of a financial disincentive. And insulate myself from risk in the bargain, of course.

That business was handled relatively quickly. Selhorys was eager to have control of the prisoners and happy that it looked to be a financial windfall as well. What turned out to be a stickier issue was the matter of securing supplies. Volantis had promised to pay for our armies' provisions, but the people of Selhorys were understandably hesitant to trade hard goods for paper promises.

They unbent a little bit when I reminded them why Volantis was paying for our food. An army had to eat one way or another, and if we couldn't buy food then the only alternative would be "living off the land." Also known as stripping local farms bare by force of arms. I'd provide the farmers with receipts, but I suspected that they would be less successful than the city council at turning those promises into gold.

In the end we reached a compromise. I agreed to pay a small portion of the cost up front, an amount easily realized out of our loot. They also would be allowed to apply our share of the ransom gold to cover any portion of the IOU not paid by Volantis. It was possible that they would try to dick us around in the future, but I wasn't too worried. I didn't think they'd be able to come up with any kind of accounting trickery that would slip past both me and Petyr, and in the event of any trouble I'd have eight thousand pissed off collection agents at my beck and call.

Provisions secured, I spent the afternoon putting together an assessment of how badly we'd hurt the Golden Company and how well we'd be able to defend this position. The answer: pretty badly, and pretty well.

We'd killed a little over seven hundred of them and captured about that many. More captives trickled in throughout the day, but not enough to change the basic calculation. We'd also killed or captured substantially all of their elephant force. Everybody I spoke to swore up and down that no elephants had made it over the bridge, which meant that our raiders should have them all in hand by the end of the day. For all their other virtues, elephants are not particularly stealthy.

We would be sending the captured elephants down to Volantis for sale. Cool as it would be to add them to our forces, the only available trained elephant handlers were from the Golden Company. Mercenaries could be cold blooded, but I could hardly expect them to make war on their long time comrades. Not to mention that if anybody had effective anti-elephant tactics up their sleeve, it would be the Golden Company.

Would the Golden Company be in any shape to deploy those tactics? It was hard to say. They had suffered fearsome losses, with around fifteen percent of their men killed or captured. Armies had dissolved over less comprehensive defeats. On the other hand, they had retreated in good order and were famed for their iron discipline. They had to be shocked at what had happened, but I suspected that beneath that they would be spoiling for a chance to avenge their defeat.

The other good news for us was that the terrain was well suited for defense. The bridge would be easy enough to secure, and the rolling hills north of Selhorys on the east side of the river were the kind of terrain that could chew up an attacking army. They might be able to cause some mischief if they could round up enough boats, but an amphibious landing with medieval technology didn't seem particularly threatening.

All in all, I was in a good mood as I headed for a meeting with my fellow Captains at the end of the day. I had already half started picking out design elements for our long term camp. The Sunset Company could more or less build permanent facilities around its tents and be perfectly content for months or years on end, of course, but it would take a bit of work to integrate our allies into the field works.

The Tattered Prince had certainly picked out a nice spot for his command tent. Located on a small hill that rose out of the flat plain between Selhorys and the river, it offered a terrific view of them both. I admired the view as I approached, and admired the tent as I took a seat around the Tattered Prince's small field table. The inside of his tent was festooned with souveniers from his long career as a sellsword. I hardly recognized any of them myself, although a few of the symbols struck a chord in Brynden's memory. Taken together they gave the tent the same sort of crazyquilt design aesthetic as his cloak.

The meeting began with a brief discussion of the day's events. The Long Lances and the Windblown hadn't lost any men during the day's pursuits. They had managed to gather twelve elephants under their control and confirm the deaths of nine more. They both seemed satisfied with my report on the negotiations with Selhorys. All in all, no surprises.

I was caught completely off guard when Irrys announced that the Long Lances would be ready to commence pursuit of the Golden Company tomorrow morning. Even more so when the Tattered Prince declared that the Windblown would be ready to go as well.

I blinked, a bit taken aback at their eagerness. Then I realized they were both looking at me. The brightly decorated walls of the Tattered Prince's tent felt like they were closing in on me as I scrambled for a response.

"My men are always ready to march, of course."

It was even true. They might grumble about all of the drilling that I put them through, but the result was the most disciplined force that Brynden had ever been associated with.

"I had thought that we would hold this position and wait for reinforcements," I continued. "After our victory, Volantis should have no trouble recruiting more men to its cause."

"Pah! They had chance to join!" Irrys said, punctuating his words by bringing his fist down on the table. "Why share glory now?"

The Tattered Prince nodded along with Irrys's words. The flickering lamplight gave his eyes an eerie shine as he added his two cents.

"Defeating the Golden Company will build a reputation. Destroying them will build a legend."

I held my tongue for a moment as I thought things through. I hadn't worried overmuch about my reputation since arriving in Westeros. Oh, I wanted the Sunset Legion to be well respected, and with our combat record as it was we were well on our way there. But as for myself, personally, there had been no need. Brynden Tully had lived a full life and built a strong name for himself long before I had arrived on the scene. While I might feel a bit awkward trading on another man's reputation, the fact remained that it was always there when I needed it. The chance to add some significant shine to that name in my own right had some appeal.

And, as the Tattered Prince had intimated, there were names and then there were names. Randyll Tarly was well known as a talented military commander. Robert Baratheon was a legend in the flesh.

Destroying the Golden Company would be the stuff of songs sung for generations to come. However eager my companions might be, though, I reminded myself that there was a reason the Golden Company had survived this long.

"They didn't appear poised on the brink of destruction to me."

They had suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of a terror weapon that they had likely never before encountered. A weapon that had turned the force of their own special units against them. And despite that they had managed a well-organized fighting retreat. Charging after them hell for leather seemed awfully risky to me. A reputation built out of careful victories might not be as grand as a reputation won from dramatic gambles, but it was valuable all the same and I'd hate to throw it away.

"On the brink, no," the Tattered Prince acknowledged. "But we did capture much of their supply train. Men of the Golden Company must eat like any other man."

That... was a very good point. The Golden Company's baggage had been a big disappointment, loot wise. They had grabbed everything valuable before they left. They hadn't been able to take the bulky low value items, though, like food.

It occurred to me that I had been thinking of pursuit in a far too modern fashion. If you were chasing mechanized infantry and you gave them a day's head start, they could be hundreds of miles away by the time you moved. Men marching on foot couldn't cover nearly that distance. Especially men who had to forage for food as they went. We could almost certainly catch up with them, operating as we were with a solid supply line from the river. If we could wear them down, pick away at their morale, deny their attempts to rest, harass their attempts to gather food... they were very disciplined men, but at the end of the day they were men. They could be defeated.

Something could go wrong, of course. They could get supplies from their own sponsors' navies. Hell, they could have reinforcements waiting up river. Things could always go wrong in war. For that matter, if they chose to engage us in a decisive battle immediately, we could lose. The Golden Company's losses had only been enough to drop us to rough numerical parity, not enough to give us a real advantage. They wouldn't have their elephants, but we wouldn't have more than a few of our firebombs.

It would be a pure test of strength on strength. Will against will.

When I realized I was smiling I knew I had made my decision.

"We'll cross the river at first light."

ooOoo


	30. Chapter 30

AN: I like to think that people in universe also think the Dornish are insufferable.

ooOoo

It wasn't quite that simple, of course. I had to meet with my column commanders to tell them about our new plan so that they could pass the orders down to their lieutenants who could pass the orders to the soldiers under their command. I also had to arrange with Selhorys for our supplies to follow us upriver. It was all more tedious than difficult. Sleep is overrated anyway.

There was some grumbling in the ranks, but the Legion looked reasonably sharp as we marched across the bridge. Victory will smooth over a lot of minor complaints. It also wasn't like we were marching into immediate danger. We knew the Golden Company was more than a day's march away. Our goal was to continue to apply strategic pressure rather than try to run after them in some kind of hot pursuit.

The terrain on the west side of the river matched what I had seen north of Selhorys. Lots of low rolling hills, gradually flattening out as they approached the river itself. Any trees growing here had long since been cut down, likely floated on down to Selhorys, so we were marching through a sea of knee high grass. It didn't take a tracker to spot the Golden Company's trail. Thousands of marching feet had left a churned up track in an arrow-straight line heading northward.

But for the river Rhoyne flowing beside us, the first couple of days could have been marching exercise back in Braavos. Hours and hours of walking followed by making camp, all without contact with the enemy. I suppose the sentries guarding the camp were more vigilant than they would have been during an exercise, but in any event there were no surprises.

It was on the third day that several scouts reported spotting their opposite numbers from the Golden Company. At that point the game was, as they say, afoot.

The plan was to harry the Golden Company. The broader idea was to put them in a situation where they didn't have any good choices. In this we were greatly aided by the fact that they had been forced to abandon their baggage train. The Golden Company was made up of highly disciplined battle-tested veteran soldiers, but they had to eat just like anybody else. The soldiers probably carried some food with them, but they wouldn't have wanted to be too loaded down during our battle. That meant that they had to get more food from somewhere.

That meant they would need to "live off the land." That could involve hunting food, but more likely meant extorting food from locals who had stored up the fruits of their own labors. They would no doubt give those locals an IOU for the food, but I'd be shocked if any of those IOUs ever turned in to hard cash.

That approach had its drawbacks. One was that it didn't engender much goodwill in the local population. That was a more pressing concern when the local population had hunting rifles, but even in medieval times it wasn't wise to provoke the smallfolk into desperate acts. The other problem was that any given location only had so much food available. The Golden Company might have liked to fort up on defensive terrain to get themselves sorted out and perhaps wait for reinforcements, but they couldn't do it without facing a very real risk of starvation.

They wouldn't run out of water, of course, not marching along the Rhoyne. In theory they could also receive food from the river. Fishing wouldn't be enough to keep them fed, of course, but Qohor or Norvos could ship food down to keep them going. I doubted they would have much success with that, though. We were well south of Dagger Lake. In addition to marking the traditional limits of the maritime influence of the northern Free Cities, Dagger Lake itself presented a serious obstacle to shipping with its rampant piracy. Any ships that made it through would then have to contend with the might of Volantis. Being that it sat on the Summer Sea, Volantis naturally had more of a navy than the landlocked cities. Not all of them could sail the Rhoyne, but now that we had freed the surrounding lands from control by a hostile army I was certain Volantis would be sending enough ships upriver to at least control the Rhoyne below Dagger Lake.

If they couldn't stop, then the Golden Company would have to keep going. That was where the harrying came in. It wouldn't involve any actual combat between foot troops. Rather, it would be a game of cat and mouse between opposing cavalry units. The Golden Company had more cavalry, but would have to spread them out in order to forage as much food as they could. By keeping our forces more concentrated we could pick off isolated units. The Golden Company could respond by consolidating their forces and perhaps attempting to lay some ambushes of their own. The point of the overall effort was to reduce the food they were bringing in and hopefully cause a steady stream of losses.

If they couldn't stop and they couldn't keep going, then at some point the Golden Company would be forced to seek a decisive engagement. That's where the Sunset Legion came in. If the Golden Company attacked us in force our job was to be the rock that could serve as the fulcrum for our allied forces. Whatever happened we would need to hold or, ideally, push the enemy off the battlefield.

I won't lie, it was a little nerve wracking marching along day after day, half-expecting to see a thousand pissed-off troops come steaming toward us from over the next ridge. Our scouts reported the Golden Company showed no signs of turning back, and our own screening force should give us plenty of warning before any actual attack, but that doesn't stop the hind brain from raising the hairs on the back of your neck when you know there are a few thousand soldiers out there who want you dead.

There was also the simple fact that the Golden Company had our allies badly outclassed when it came to cavalry. That gave them a lot of strategic maneuverability if they wanted to use it. If they gathered a couple thousand troops together and decided to head straight for our foot troops, our cavalry wouldn't be able to do much to slow them down. It would be up to the Sunset Legion to see them off. I thought my men could do it-we'd certainly been able to handle the Long Lances-but there was a niggling sense of doubt in the back of my mind.

If I was feeling a bit unsettled, I'd wager the men were worried too. That was why, a week into the pursuit, I broke from my usual routine. I rode at the front of the legion throughout the morning, as was my usual custom, but in the afternoon I hopped off my horse and dropped back to march with the men. As it happened, the commander of the frontmost body of troops was Walder Frey.

"Ho there, Walder! Nice day for a walk."

He nodded as I fell into step alongside him. "I was just saying something similar, Captain. I must admit that the view is better from the front."

I knew that the individual companies rotated in the marching order. I didn't pay much attention to the details. I took a moment to study Walder. His time in the field had done him good. He had lost the softness that a man in a comfortable station tends to acquire in peace time, and acquired a healthy tan and a bit of lean muscle. His eyes, always sharp, had taken on a more serious cast, and he didn't seem at all flustered to be talking to me.

It's a shame that war is so ruinous to nations when it can be so good for young men.

"Still, it's damned inconsiderate of those golden bastards to drag things out like this," I said, shaking my head. "They can't win. With all this running they're only going to die tired."

Walder inclined his head, acknowledging the point. "I will say I look forward to the next group of Dornishmen I meet crossing the Twins."

"Oh?"

"They do go on, you know. Mother Rhoyne, Queen Nymeria, unbowed, unbent, unbroken, and all that. I quite like the idea of mentioning that I helped reconquer their old homeland. The tricky part is to mention it in an offhand sort of way."

I chuckled. I was a little surprised enough Dornish used the Twins to leave Walder with an opinion of them. My memory of the books was that the Dornish had always struck me as arrogant pricks. Searching Brynden's memories, he hadn't met that many Dornishmen... but they were all arrogant pricks. I guess some things were universal.

"Let me know once you've figured it out. I can probably find some Dornish for you to insult without needing to go all the way back to the Twins."

I also didn't want him dwelling too much on thoughts of home. I wasn't under the impression that any of the Freys were tremendously enamored with their living situation, but time away does tend to make the heart grow fonder. Walder had proven to be a capable commander as well as providing a valuable service in gathering information. He could train up a replacement, but I'd much rather he stick around. Besides, I'd grown to like the guy.

I noticed that the man marching next to Walder and a bit behind was obviously listening in to our conversation and smiling at the casual denigration of the Dornish. I caught his eye before I spoke again.

"And you, Carsen? Do enough Dornish truly pass through Fairmarket for you to form an opinion of them?"

"Ser," he said, pulling himself straight as he started at the shock of being addressed. "Begging your pardon, ser, but it don't take many."

I put on a bit of a mock frown at that. "Now lads, when you get a little bit older and wiser you'll realise that there's a balance to everything in this world. You wouldn't appreciate the light of day without the dark of night. You wouldn't appreciate the summer without winter. And without Dornish men, we wouldn't have Dornish women."

Dornish women, as it happened, were behind three of Brynden's five closest brushes with death. The ninepenny war rounded out most of the top ten. Still, as I looked back over the years I couldn't help but agree with the conclusion drawn by a younger Blackfish: totally worth it.

I made conversation with the two of them for a few more minutes before making my excuses and dropping back in the formation to repeat my performance with the commander of the next century in line. It's touchy business, appearing unconcerned with looming danger without seeming dangerously out of touch and without obviously putting on an act. Fortunately, Brynden Tully had years of experience in soothing young warriors, experience that I drew on throughout the day.

I also had a few opportunities to repeat the trick I had pulled with Carsen. I didn't actually know all of my employees by sight. There were too many of them for that to be practical, and honestly the effort involved in even trying to get to know all of them would have involved far too much socialization outside the chain of command to be healthy for the Legion as a whole. But I did know a fair few of them. Enough that I was able to from time to time address somebody casually by name in the middle of a conversation.

A mercenary outfit like ours ran best if the rank and file were convinced that the old man in charge knew everything and was in complete control of the situation. My sore feet were a small price to pay for shoring up those beliefs, and my feel for the men by the end of the day was telling me that our morale was in a good place. In public I was the very picture of confidence and the men drew strength from me.

Sitting up in my tent after the day's march was through, all those worries that I kept hidden tried to bubble up to the surface. Many of them were groundless, or out of my control. If the Long Lances fucked up and were slaughtered to a man it would be disastrous for the campaign, but there wasn't much I could do about it. What I could do-or at least should try to do-was to figure out a solid plan of battle in case the Golden Company chose to make a stand.

Even in a disaster of stampeding elephants and flaming missiles, the Golden Company's heavy cavalry had damn near turned our flank. The Long Lances had held them off, but I didn't like their chances in an extended fight. I was confident that my men could win the infantry battle if given enough time. The problem came down to math: the Golden Company had more cavalry than we did, and man for man they were at least as good as ours. If we split our forces evenly they could split their forces evenly and outnumber us on each flank. Or somebody might get the bright idea to concentrate their forces on one flank and press for a breakthrough while fighting a holding action on the other side.

Essentially, we wanted to stalemate the cavalry battle while the infantry fight decided the outcome, while the Golden Company would be aiming for the exact opposite. It was possible that the Long Lances would manage a heroic effort that would inspire the Windblown skirmishers to go toe to toe with the Golden Company's heavy cavalry and hold them off. But it was a hell of a thing to depend on.

The Golden Company was running right now in part because it was a natural reaction to being pursued, but also because they were still going on the momentum of our first battle. Once they got over that, there was no telling what they would do. It would be pretty fucking embarrassing if they sent us running back the way we had come.

Just as I had every evening after crossing the Rhoyne, I sat up for an hour after curfew staring at the diagram I had drawn of the battle of Selhorys and chewed on my quill, hoping for inspiration to come to me.

ooOoo


	31. Chapter 31

AN: Sorry about the delay.

ooOoo

I came into this world knowing there were two classic beginner's mistakes when it came to tactical warfare: making things too simple, and making things too complicated. However fun and exciting it might feel to zerg rush your opposition, repeating the same thing over and over was eventually going to run you headlong into defeat. On the other hand, there was the problem of friction: passing along messages and coordinating complicated maneuvers was fiendishly difficult in the heat of battle, and turning your troops into a confused mess was just about the worst thing you could ever do during a fight. The trick was coming up with plans that walked the tightrope of being effective while still being possible to carry out.

Brynden's memories weren't a huge help on that front. His experience, as was true of most of the local nobility, focused on logistics, strategy, and morale. It was the pursuit of a morale advantage that lay behind all the endless personal drilling in fighting technique. No one man could cut down enough of an opposing army to make a numerically noticeable impact, but seeing your liege lord up in front fighting was a morale boost like few others. Other than that he knew quite a bit about deciding where an army should go and how an army should go about getting there, but not much on tactical maneuver.

Westeros had the concept of small unit tactics, of course. There were all manner of things one could accomplish with twenty good men. But when you had an army of thousands of men drawn from vassal levies scattered all over the kingdom, there was only so much you could do. You could position them to create an advantage. You could try and maneuver for a terrain advantage of some kind. Once the fighting was imminent, though, the only orders you could really give were to advance or to retreat. And the retreat order was often iffy.

The Sunset Legion had drilled and drilled and drilled until I believed they could do more than that. I was ready to introduce the concept of tactical decisions that went beyond deciding when to commit your reserve. I just wasn't sure whether I would be introducing a new model of combat or providing a cautionary tale for ages to come.

These were the thoughts that ran through the back of my mind as we marched day after day up the Rhoyne. We didn't see hide nor hair of the Golden Company, but our allied cavalry reported plenty of action every night. So far they had been enjoying modest success, though there was always the danger of one giant ambush wiping out days of incremental gains. Around us the terrain grew choppier, the hillcrests packed closer together and higher up. It was a welcome relief after days of fighting up and down those hills when things smoothed out again as we continued on. By the time we were within a week's march of Chroyane the terrain was much like the fields surrounding Selhorys. Not pancake flat, but gently sloped enough that you didn't really notice until you had crested one hill and started down the other side.

The basic mathematical problem facing me hadn't changed. While our outriders were nibbling away at the cavalry advantage enjoyed by the Golden Company, the advantage remained. However we deployed our forces, they would have choices available to them to respond. Being as they had more cavalry, they would be able to choose a cavalry advantage on one or both flanks.

I needed them to make the wrong choice. That was easier said than done. I didn't have any tricks in mind from back home that would get me anywhere-building plywood tanks to fool recon planes wouldn't do much-nor did I have Lann the Clever in my ranks to hide a cavalry squad behind a blade of grass with his tactical genius. There were some things you could do to fool scouts. Set more cooking fires than you really need, march in unusually wide or narrow columns to confuse your trail, that kind of thing. But when it came right down to it there wasn't much you could do to hide the disposition of your forces when you were marching into melee range.

So they would see how our forces were arranged. That didn't mean they necessarily knew what we could do. I could work with that. We might just deliver a surprise that would result in a decisive victory. Or cock things up and get overrun by a thousand knights.

Or we could hold the bulk of our cavalry in reserve and use them to delay whatever the Golden Company tried to do. Just rely on our pikemen to carry the day. That had been our original plan, and it had a lot going for it. One thing was making me nervous, though: my backup plan had always been for us to turtle up, weather a loss, and retreat in good order. That plan became less and less practical the further we marched up the Rhoyne. Managing a retreat to a safe haven a day or two away was a very different thing from two weeks of retreat.

I didn't let on about any of these worries in front of the men, of course. Undermining their morale would be worse than any tactical blunder I could make. I did my best to treat our march like any other, dispensing bad jokes, good advice, and the occasional rebuke for sloppy work. I thought about talking things over with my lieutenants, but ultimately decided against it. I would present any plan I decided on to them for discussion, but it wouldn't do them any good to see me dither.

I did have a few quiet conversations with the other company commanders after the nightly scouting reports. Irrys, of course, was confident in the ability of the Long Lances to outfight their opposition. The Tattered Prince was more cautious, but ultimately believed that past performance predicted future results. A company that had been beaten and was currently on the run was unlikely to muster the fighting spirit to turn around and defeat its pursuers.

We were about a day's march south of Chroyane when his theory would be put to the test.

ooOoo

I crested the rise to find the sight before me matched the description given by our scouts. The hill sloped down gently for a few hundred yards, turning into a flat plain that stretched for another few hundred yards before sloping up into the next hill. Halfway up the opposite slope a line had been carved into the earth, creating a ditch and rampart defense currently manned by men in shining armor. It was the first time I had laid eyes on the Golden Company since the battle, and if this moment were my first introduction to them I would never have guessed that they had been conducting a hard fought retreat for the last three weeks.

I suppose you don't get a reputation as the best mercenary company in Essos by collecting bottle caps.

In the center of the valley a small party was waiting beneath a flag of parley, seated casually on their horses. I could make out the black heart painted on the shield of the man at the head of the group. Looked like Myles Toyne wanted to talk.

The Tattered Prince and Irrys Marohr had been riding beside me. They finished their survey of the situation and were turning to me as I turned to address them.

"Shall we see what he has to say?"

They both agreed, though it was clear neither expected anything particularly useful to come of it. Still, even mercenaries respected the flag of parley. Attacking the group below was out of the question, so we might as well talk. Even if it devolved into an exchange of insults, there was no harm in it and we might get a chance to take the measure of the man leading the Golden Company.

I'll admit I was curious, too. Brynden only knew Toyne by reputation and I didn't remember him at all.

Someone with sharper eyes than mine counted nine men in the delegation below. We gathered up six other horsemen as escorts and rode down under our own white flag. The Tattered Prince and Irrys fell in behind me. I wasn't too surprised. Irrys wasn't much of a diplomat and the Tattered Prince was a quiet sort. Their willingness to let me do the talking didn't mean that they were letting me run the whole show. I knew more or less what they were willing to agree to. If I went beyond that they wouldn't show dissension in front of the enemy but they'd certainly tear strips out of me once we were back in camp.

I glanced behind us to see that our men were already filing over the ridge and setting to work digging our own ditch and rampart line. Just because we were going to talk didn't mean we had to leave ourselves vulnerable. A parley can always end suddenly and once the parley is over an attack is perfectly honorable.

If Toyne noticed the work going on behind us he didn't pay it any attention. Instead his gaze was fixed on the three of us as we rode into earshot.

"Marohr. Prince. Blackfish."

"Blackheart."

I was tempted to try to needle him. The problem was that I didn't really know what would get under his skin. The kind of people who cheerfully commit heinous war crimes generally aren't the kind to get flustered when you accuse them of committing war crimes. Trying to twit him without knowing what would work would be foolish. Instead I held my tongue and studied the man in silence.

Myles Toyne was an ugly motherfucker. Not the ugliest I'd ever seen, but on the spectrum ranging from a dashing commander on the one hand and a brutish thug on the other he was pretty far along towards the thuggish end of things. His nose was too big for his face and had been broken several times. His ears jutted out on both sides like jug handles, and his lantern jaw had also been broken and reset crooked. Match all that with his receding hairline and the stubble of a man on campaign and you had a face capable of scaring small children.

He also had a black reputation to go along with the black heart blazoned on his shield. It was said that when he marched he left a trail of broken bodies and broken men in his wake.

Looking in his eyes, though, I had my doubts. Brynden had met plenty of out and out sadists in his life, and Toyne didn't carry that air of casual cruelty that Brynden associated with the true psychos. There was a calculating glint in his eyes that didn't match with his brutal reputation.

Toyne had been sizing me up while I was studying him, and apparently decided he had seen enough.

"Your boys fought a hell of a fight back in Selhorys. I can respect that," he said, pausing to hock up a loogie and spit off to the side. "Pull out now and start marching south and I'll let you go. We can fight some other time."

Well, it stood to reason that it took balls to rise to the top in the Golden Company. Still, that was a bit much.

"How generous of you."

Toyne didn't react to the sarcasm. He just kept his steady gaze on me as he spoke.

"Your boys fought hard, but they're green as grass. First time they lose they'll shatter."

That was a fair point. Or it would have been, with an ordinary fighting unit made up of troops the age of my men. Surviving the ups and downs of a miliary campaign bred a certain sort of resilience that was invaluable when it came to holding a unit together through a defeat. I was pretty sure that we had managed to accomplish something similar by virtue of incessant drilling. I'd wager my men would be able to retreat in good order if it came to that. Of course, I was hardly going to get into that discussion now.

"We'll just have to keep winning, then."

He shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't make much difference where we kill them. Must be going soft in my old age."

With that, he spat out another impressive gob of phlegm and turned to ride away, his men following after. The parley was over.

The Golden Company had decided to make their stand. The question now was what we were going to do about it.

ooOoo


	32. Chapter 32

AN: Holy cow, almost to the first page of ASoIaF fics by review count.

ooOoo

I was halfway through my breakfast the next day when I heard a lookout call out. His voice didn't have the note of panic in it that would have inspired me to abandon my food. Instead I quickly downed the last of my camp stew and was on my feet mopping up the remnants with a chunk of bread when the messenger reached my tent. I held the bread between my teeth as I tugged my helmet on and gnawed on it as I followed the messenger through our camp. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, after all, and most armies aren't sporting enough to allow for a snack break if you start to run out of energy mid-battle.

I arrived at the edge of our camp in plenty of time to see what had caused all the commotion. The Golden Company was marching out from behind their defensive position. Rank after rank, they made their way down the hill and formed up in a skirmish line on the valley floor. Our own camp bustled with activity, bugles ringing out and summoning the men to their formation. I sent a messenger to fetch my column commanders and soon Rodrik, Petyr, and Walder were standing beside me, watching the activity below.

Having lost their elephants, the Golden Company was assuming a more conventional formation. The front lines were organized into what seemed to be phalanxes, men armed with spear and shield standing close enough together to cover their neighbor. While visually impressive, I was confident that we could beat them. The simple physics of pushing with two hands on a twenty foot spear instead of with one hand on an eight to ten foot spear made for a decisive advantage. Behind the phalanx stretched an almost equal number of lightly armored missile troops of all sorts. Their cavalry was split off to the sides of the formation, divided roughly equally with a small group kept in reserve.

They moved with quiet professionalism, quickly sorting themselves out into a formation that was as neat and tidy as if it were drawn up in a textbook. Once they were in place they marched forward in unison. They had nearly reached the center of the valley when they came to a halt, another maneuver that would have earned praise on a parade ground.

A ripple of relaxation ran through our camp as it became clear that we weren't facing an imminent assault.

"Looks like they want a battle," I said. I wondered how much of a wait it would take before that professional image cracked and they started shouting insults up at our camp.

"They're starving and desperate," Walder said. "Let them stand there and sweat."

"We've been chasing them for weeks and now they're right there," Petyr said. "Let's gut the bastards."

"We're going to have to fight them eventually," Rodrik said. "Although I dare say I'd rather they had to run uphill first."

"I do believe this calls for a command meeting," I said. "Rodrik, get the men in marching order then release them in shifts to finish eating and tidying up the camp."

Even if we did decide to grant the Golden Company their wish and meet them in battle, it wouldn't be any time soon. Making a bold move as they had was often good for a morale boost. Letting them stew for a while ought to take the edge off of that, while our men could take their time and be at peak readiness when it was time to fight.

ooOoo

The other two company commanders had had a similar thought, and we were soon gathered together on the hillside just outside of and below our fortifications. We were each mounted and positioned so that we could look out onto the valley below while we spoke with each other.

"So, Golden Company is ready for fight after all," Irrys said. He sounded almost pleased.

"A good meal will stiffen anyone's spine," the Tattered Prince commented. Seeing the looks of surprise on our faces, he explained.

He had sent some scouts out rather closer to the Golden Company's camp than I had dared. During the night they saw several ships pull up on the river bank. The ships weren't flying any flag, and none of them were maintained to any kind of military standard. They were, however, well loaded down, judging by the time spent unloading boxes. The scout had stayed long enough to see the general level of enthusiasm with the delivery and the immediate transport of the boxes to the camp's cook fires before making his way back and giving his report.

That changed things. I had been relying on the pirates of Dagger Lake to deny the Golden Company any resupply from Qohor or Norvos. It wasn't wrong to think that they would try to capture anything valuable heading down the river, but the pirates were hardly loyal to Volantis. They had no reason not to take the Golden Company's money. I doubted that they had enough food on hand to keep the whole army fed, but trying to starve our way to victory just got a lot more difficult.

We were close to the edge of Volantene control over the Rhoyne, even as reckoned on the most optimistic maps back in Volantis. Could they send enough naval power up here to stop the food smuggling? Sure. Would they? Probably not. And if they did it certainly wouldn't be in a timely fashion. So sitting in our camp and waiting for the Golden Company to run out of food was no longer a viable option.

What's more, that meant that the challenge the Golden Company was presenting by marching out and offering battle was not the desperate throw of the dice that it had seemed. Instead, it was an effort to complete the reversal of morale that had occurred over the past couple of days. For weeks the Golden Company had been on the run, scrambling for food to fend off starvation. Now, they had a base of operations. They had asserted control over a particular piece of land. They had some semblance of a supply chain. If they were willing to fight us out in the open and we weren't willing to fight them, then all of a sudden they were the force with strategic mobility on its side.

Staying in camp and refusing to fight was always going to rankle. I could sell it to the men if it was something that would lead to an inevitable victory. Now, though, it sure would look a lot like cowardice. It would also show a lack of confidence in my men. That was a poison that could linger for a long time.

The Tattered Prince had obviously had the time to work through the implications of the news before he shared it with us. He waited patiently, though, holding his peace as we processed the information. It was Irrys who spoke first.

"Attack is not just chasing glory, then."

I felt a weight that I hadn't been aware of fall off of my shoulders. He was right. There was no real decision to be made now. We could pull back. Put things off. But if we couldn't beat the Golden Company now, when could we beat them? If we declined a fight on a level field of battle now, how could we ask our men to fight the Golden Company later, under worse circumstances? Volantis might hire some reinforcements, but Qohor and Norvos could do the same thing. At some point we were going to have to prove that we were better than the other guys if we wanted to win this war. We wouldn't get a better chance than today.

The sudden absence of worry brought into sharp relief something that had been nagging at me for a while. Part of me was still new to leading troops, and very new to the idea of heading into a close run battle. That part of me had nurtured the suspicion that I might just be the worst kind of glory hound: sending young men off to die in order to build up my own reputation. Picking a fight with the Golden Company just to write my name in the history books with the blood of men who trusted me.

Now that I was looking at it squarely, I could see that the idea was nonsense. The men following me knew the risks when they signed up. They looked up to me, they respected me, but they knew combat was a dangerous thing. They were still ready, hell, they were still eager, to get out there and fight. All they asked from me was to give them the best chance possible to win. After all, they shared in the glory of anything we accomplished together.

I nodded as I came to a conclusion. "Let's use the unbalanced formation."

Both of them looked at me, a little uncertain. It was the Tattered Prince who spoke.

"Are you sure?"

I nodded again. "If we're going to wager it all, I'll bet on my men."

ooOoo

It was a lovely day for a battle. The sun had burned away the early morning overcast and was providing a pleasant warmth that had not yet turned into the oppressive heat of the afternoon. The sun seemed to shine down on us from across the river Rhoyne, throwing sparkling reflections off the water. With the battlefield oriented north to south neither army would be staring into the sun.

We formed up out in front of our camp. Down below in the valley the Golden Company had relaxed as the hours dragged on but pulled themselves back into readiness when we made our move.

As always, the Sunset Legion was at the heart of our formation. Petyr had command of the first column. Fifty men wide by twenty men deep, it was the Legion column closest to the river and would be the first unit to close with the enemy. To their left the second column was of a similar makeup and stood ten paces back. They were under the command of Walder Frey. The reserve column was another ten paces back and compared to the other two was rotated ninety degrees, standing twenty men wide and fifty men deep. Steady Rodrik Lolliston was in charge of them. In our previous battles the reserves had never had more than mopping up to do. I suspected that was about to change today.

Where our formation differed from the usual was in the disposition of the allied troops. A small force of skirmishers and light cavalry protected the left flank, and another small force of cavalry was behind the main formation in reserve, but by far the majority of the Windblown and the Long Lances were positioned on the right flank, between Petyr's men and the river. We could wind up with a cavalry advantage on the right flank, depending on how the Golden Company responded. At the very least the change in formation should prompt them to make a change in response. I was quite curious to see what they did.

This was a battle that was going to come down to fighting spirit and perhaps tactical acumen. I was just about out of superweapons. We had a few of the alcohol grenades remaining. I would have loved to have more. The shock value would be less, now that they had seen them in action, but it's hard to become totally inured to the prospect of being lit on fire. For that matter, now that the Golden Company had seen the grenades at work, even the threat of them might be unnerving. To that end, I had once again seeded torchbearers throughout our formation. Unlike last time, most of them had crossbows slung across their backs and were under orders to snuff their torches and start shooting once they were in range. Only a few torches would be needed to light off the last few grenades. They were clustered in Petyr's column to give him a little more punch at the point of attack.

I took one last look over the line. Everybody was in place. I nodded to the drummer. He beat out a steady rhythm, and on the second repetition the men began to march. The fate of this war was in their hands now.

ooOoo


	33. Chapter 33

ooOoo

The Sunset Legion was on the march. The men moved with the cohesion drilled into them by relentless training and now reinforced by hard experience. Beneath their disciplined tread I could sense their excitement. An enemy that we had been chasing for weeks was finally within reach. They were eager to have it out with the Golden Company. I felt my own heart race as my instinctive surge of adrenaline was reinforced by that communal enthusiasm. I had to forcibly fight back the urge to spur my horse forward and truly lead my troops into battle.

Instead I played the role of a responsible commander, riding at a walking pace behind the second column of troops. The reserve column was on my left while the ground to my right was clear all the way to the river, albeit churned up by the passage of Petyr's lead column. I didn't have quite the same commanding view of the battle that I had when the Legion numbered only a thousand as my horse no longer provided enough elevation to see the front lines clearly. Still, it was more than I would be able to see on foot. Several messengers rode with me in case I needed to send an order more complicated than drum and bugle would allow.

Ironically, Jon Connington would have a better view of the battle than I would. I had left him behind together with the minimal guard that would provide the initial defense of our camp in the event that we had to retreat to a fortified position. I'd ordered him tied up where he could look out over the valley. He'd no doubt thought it the height of arrogance, but in truth I thought it cruel to leave him in suspense as to the battle's outcome.

There may have been a bit of arrogance mixed in there, too. No matter how formidable the Golden Company might be their spears hadn't grown longer overnight. Things would get ugly once the Sunset Legion faced other pikemen but for now we had an advantage that I intended to exploit for all it was worth.

The drumbeat picked up in intensity and the legion surged forward as it hit flat ground and the moment of contact drew imminent. The men were letting out a battle cry now, an incoherent roar that I felt in my bones as much as I heard it with my ears.

Then one of the Windblown was riding across the front of the formation from the far right. He was shouting something. What it was I couldn't hear. I could see the result, though, as the first column slowed before coming to a halt. The second column soon followed suit, as did the reserves.

"Find out what the fuck is going on!" I barked out at one of the messengers. Though we'd heard the order to halt being passed along it was of course not accompanied by an explanation.

Before the messenger could leave another Windblown scout rode up to us. He'd been pushing his horse hard. It's breath was flecked with foam. The rider was fairly trembling himself.

"Captain Tully! There's a trench across the battlefield! It was hidden..."

I listened absently to the rest of the report as I saw the Golden Company maneuver for the first time. Their ranks opened up to allow their archers open lines of fire into our formation. A veritable storm of arrows lashed out, flat fired from close range.

Most of the men had the sense to kneel down and look down. Present the smallest possible target and let their armor do its job. Almost as importantly, that allowed our crossbowmen to return fire. Gaps opened in the ranks on either side of the trench, and the incoming arrows slackened a bit as their archers had to worry about their own safety.

Meanwhile, images flashed before my mind. The Golden Company, well ahead of us, choosing this valley as their battlefield. Myles Toyne, waiting for me in the middle of the valley. Creating that mental division of "our half" and "their half" and leaving us content to remain on our side. Riding back to camp... what an act, finding the bridge left over the trench without appearing to take any particular care at all.

We were in trouble. They had more missile troops than we did. Ours were better armored, but even so if this was going to be a game of standing at range and shooting at each other then we were going to lose. The only saving grace was that the trench would help our own retreat, but the sound of massed hoof beats told me that even that option was off the table for now.

The Golden Company had responded to our unbalanced cavalry formation as I'd expected. Even more so. I'd thought they would weight their formation towards our left flank. It appeared that they had sent just about all of the cavalry to our left. They had anchored their own left with the trench and, now that I looked, a line of spearmen braced to hold off our cavalry. The overwhelming might of the knights and squires of the Golden Company had swung out wide, ridden past the trench, and was now looking to smash our reserve column. They contemptuously ignored the token force of light cavalry and skirmishers, totally intent on administering the coup de grace.

Warrior preserve him, I'd put Rodrik in command of the reserve column for his patience. As the Golden Company charged forward, the reserves showed no sign of movement, still braced against the incoming arrows. The cavalry rumbled closer, individual banners now visible among the horde. Still there was no response. The roar of thousands of riders was making it hard to think. Still the reserves were frozen in place.

Just when I thought that we were surely beyond the last possible moment, three sharp whistle blasts echoed across the battlefield.

The reserve column turned as one, their pikes rising to vertical before falling into place to present a forest of spikes towards the oncoming enemy. I'm sure the riders were game to try their luck but the horses wanted nothing to do with impaling themselves for the greater glory of the Golden Company. All up and down the line there was chaos as horses came skidding to a sudden halt. Rodrik had cut it damn fine. In a few places horses were unable to stop in time and shrieked as they skewered themselves with their own momentum. The pikes held fast, braced against the ground as they were, and the reserves held their line.

The shock of the sudden stop transmitted itself back through the charging cavalry. What had been a coordinated charge soon turned into a massive traffic jam. Horses were packed together far more closely than their formation would ordinarily allow and milled about as officers bellowed, trying to restore order. It was a phenomenon that I had noticed when we fended off the Long Lances, which was why I had prepared Rodrik to give his next order.

"Column, ADVANCE!"

Ordinarily it's not a great idea for men on foot to charge at cavalry. The guy on the horse has a natural height advantage. He also can go much faster because, of course, he's on a horse. The infantry is liable to get outmaneuvered and run down, assuming they're good enough to avoid being cut down like grass.

This was not an ordinary circumstance. Our pikes more than negated the reach advantage provided by the horse and however fast a horse might be it can't go anywhere when it's hemmed in on all sides.

The legionnaires pushed forward with a yell, stabbing out at anything that came within their reach. It was brutal. It was beautiful.

I saw a rider pushed out of the saddle with a pike through his gut. His mount panicked until a merciful stab to the throat silenced it forever. Another horse took several spears to the chest, collapsing and taking its knight with it to the ground. The knight was bowled over and trampled by advancing legionnaires. One man who had lost his pike was ranging back and forth behind the front line of advance, briefly crouching over each fallen foe, his knife shining with blood.

The Golden Company cavalry had no intention of dying in place. They struggled to move but gradually managed to turn themselves away from the oncoming push. No doubt they intended to separate from the pikemen and then begin maneuvering to exploit the gaps this attack was creating in our formation. That was when the second part of our plan went into effect.

The Long Lances, five hundred of the heaviest cavalry we had on hand, crashed into the front ranks of the retreat.

The Golden Company's path of retreat was cut off on their right by their own trench. Going to their left meant moving towards our fortifications, not to mention that they would have a ways to go in order to clear the advancing line of pikemen. Behind them, that line of pikemen was advancing as an implacable tide. Their only way out was forward, where they now faced another roadblock created by the attack of the Long Lances.

The overall effect was not unlike what you would see if you dropped a rock in a narrow stream. What had been a relatively orderly flow of cavalry now became an outright rout, as they raced to get around the obstruction and away to freedom. Even so, many of them found themselves pressed in place, unable to fight back as the line of pikes drew ever closer.

My attention was drawn from the cavalry battle by another massive roar. I turned back to face the main battlefield and blinked. At some point the Sunset Legion had managed to make its way across the defensive trench. They had pushed the Golden Company back across the field and now had them on the run. It was only human for their morale to break as they saw disaster befall their cavalry.

The Golden Company fled for the safety of their camp, but it wasn't to be. With the infantry pushed back the cavalry on our right had easily vaulted over the trench and now cut off their line of retreat. The Golden Company were forced to run away from the river, around the hill and then north towards the Sorrows. The Long Lances and Windblown rode on to press the pursuit while our infantry moved to secure the enemy camp.

For my part, I finally advanced to the defensive trench and stared down, taking a moment to process what I was seeing. The trench itself was only six or seven feet across. If I were twenty years younger I could have run and jumped across it easily enough. Of course, in armor and carrying a pike, not so much. Spanning the gap at regular intervals were pairs of pikes spaced a couple feet apart. They'd been driven deep into the ground at both ends.

After I'd seen enough I backed my horse up and leaped across the gap. A group of legionnaires was gathered around something twenty feet past the trench. I headed that way to try and find out what was going on. The men parted when I drew near, and I dismounted when I saw Petyr stretched out on the ground. He had a strap of leather clenched between his teeth and a maester crouched over him.

Petyr's eyes were rolled back until just the whites were showing and the maester was obviously busy. I turned to the men around me to ask what had happened. They all tried to jump in at once but eventually managed to sort themselves out and tell the story.

Petyr had improvised some maneuvers of his own while I had been distracted by the cavalry charge. He'd come up with the idea of having the first rank of men lay their pikes down across the trench to form rudimentary bridges. The next couple of ranks had moved up and used the length of their pikes to push the Golden Company back from their side of the trench.

Then Petyr had led the charge. His pike braced under one arm and a lit grenade in the other, he had charged across the trench, throwing the grenade at the first man that he saw and lighting him on fire. He'd then laid about himself with his pike. He'd attack with such ferocity that he'd managed to carve out a bubble of space that was quickly filled with oncoming legionnaires. The Golden Company was caught out of sorts transitioning from a ranged attack formation to a melee combat formation, and the legionnaires had pressed home the attack with a fury. The routing of the cavalry was the last straw.

Petyr had suffered for his heroics. He had come under withering fire from enemy archers. I could see that he had been peeled out of his breastplate. The maester had cut away the gambeson underneath. It was badly stained with blood on his left side, just above and again below his hips. Blood also covered his cheek, although that seemed to be from a glancing blow.

The maester sat up straight and cut off the thread he'd been using to stitch. A moment later Petyr seemed to come back to himself. He spat out the strap when he saw me and started trying to push himself up. He settled down when I crouched down and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Did we win?"

He sounded so very young. I nodded.

"Good. That's... I didn't know what to do. So I attacked."

I smiled. "You did good, Petyr."

He relaxed at that, falling back into a full body slump. His eyes never left mine or I would have thought he had passed out. A long moment passed in silence, Petyr only moving in reaction to the maester's continued prodding. Eventually he lifted his head and spoke.

"I'm cold," Petyr announced, his tone of voice oddly detached. I'm not a doctor, but that didn't sound good.

"The maester has you half out of your clothes. We'll fetch you some blankets."

"Blankets... I'm tired."

I'm not a doctor, but that really didn't sound good.

"You can rest later. You need to stay awake for now. Stay with me, Petyr."

He smiled, his eyes not quite focusing on my face.

"'salright. I'll just..." he said, before the next few words were swallowed by an enormous yawn. "Tell Cat..."

Petyr mumbled a few more words that I couldn't make out. His eyes slid shut and the back of his head hit the ground with a thud as his whole body went limp.

ooOoo


	34. Chapter 34

AN: Wine, the cause of and solution to all of life's problems.

ooOoo

I'm not a doctor.

Fortunately we had a maester on hand to tell us that Petyr was still alive before I declared him a heroic martyr. There was a steady diet of bone broth in store for Petyr for a while but the maester was confident that he'd live. He'd be stuck in bed rest for the next few days and it would be a while before he made a full recovery. I cleared out the battlefield grit that had gotten into my eyes and started whipping the gathered soldiers into dealing with the tasks at hand.

As usual after a battle, there was plenty to do. The first order of business, securing the enemy camp, looked like it had more or less been finished while I was distracted. I could see my men roaming freely throughout the enemy fortifications and a knot of men that looked to be guarding prisoners. The next task was to take an accounting of the final results of the battle.

All in all, we'd come off rather well. Thirty-six dead, a few more seriously wounded who would be touch and go, and a shitload of minor arrow wounds. Our maester was going to be kept busy stitching people up for a while, but we didn't look likely to lose more than a few more men. On the other side the Golden Company had left hundreds of bodies and hundreds of prisoners behind. And that was just in the immediate vicinity of the battlefield. I could only imagine the slaughter being wreaked in the pursuit while we were taking stock.

When it came to tidying up the battlefield, the Golden Company had been kind enough to dig their own grave. We systematically stripped their corpses of anything valuable before rolling them into the trench that stretched across the battlefield. Our own dead were put off to the side and covered with blankets pending a proper burial. The horses that hadn't survived the ill-fated cavalry charged were butchered and fires built to smoke the resulting meat for preservation. It wasn't anybody's first choice of food but an army in the field couldn't be picky.

Not that tonight's dinner would be horse jerky. Far from it. Along with the Golden Company's camp we had captured the valuables that they had deemed important enough to grab and carry away after their first defeat. In addition to a sizable amount of gold, this included a surprising number of casks of fine wine. I ordered the men to leave them be for now and posted a guard on the wine.

It was probably impossible for me to provoke a mutiny after such a resounding victory, but that order drew some grumbles. The men cheered up when I explained that booze that good should be saved for a special occasion. Like a victory feast.

ooOoo

A messenger dispatched from the pursuit arrived at our camp just as the sun was setting. He reported that things were going as well as could be expected, but that given the ground that had been covered the main body of cavalry wouldn't be rejoining us until afternoon of the next day.

I made the executive decision that the captured booze would go to those of us who were present for dinner. I did make a note of what we had found so that the cavalry could be credited the value of what we would be drinking. Fair's fair. But a wise commander doesn't give an order if he's not sure he'll be obeyed.

The feast made for an interesting experience. Our chefs broke out the best of our rations and cooked up the fresh food that had been captured from the Golden Company. It was good, but it was simple fare. The kind of meal you might enjoy at the table of a prosperous farmer. The wine, though, wouldn't have been out of place next to the plate of a king. Arbor golds. Dornish reds. Some kind of essosi firewine that kicked like a mule going down. You name it, we were drinking it.

Really, though, the wine was only an accent note next to the real sauce that gave the meal its savor: victory. There was a buzz in the air. A sense of pride, triumph, giddy relief. I was more on the relief side of things myself. I'd been tricked by Myles Toyne. If the reserves hadn't turned in time. If Petyr hadn't found a way across the trench. If the men hadn't held up so well under the archery barrage. If one more thing had gone wrong, we would have been proper fucked.

But it hadn't. And on the strength of that razor thin balancing of accounts we had won a resounding victory that likely had decided the war in our favor. Hells, we might have ended the Golden Company. Those poor bastards were being driven hard into the Sorrows at night. The Father alone knew how many of them would make it out.

So I enjoyed my wine and for the most part kept my own counsel as I listened to the men around me. Most of them, being young men who were used to winning battles, were in a far less introspective mood. Boisterous songs, cheerful braggadocio, and spirited retellings of the day's events were the order of the night. The Windblown infantry freely circulated through our camp and shared in the celebration. I heard the occasional argument break out over who was really more responsible for the victory, but it was mostly in good fun. A few fights had to be broken up by the men I had detailed to stay sober and keep an eye on things-motivated by the promise of extra pay and a cask of wine held back for them for tomorrow-but nothing serious.

I sat at a table a bit apart from the main proceedings, accompanied by my lieutenants. They came and went throughout the night, spending time with their men before returning to the company of their fellow officers. The only constant presences at the table were Walder, Rodrik, and Jon Connington. As a noble prisoner who had given his parole Connington deserved to sit with us, but watching him sulk throughout the night it seemed he would have preferred to be sharing bread and water with the men we'd captured today.

As the night wore on and the firewine went down easier and easier Connington's attitude really started to grate. I finally set my glass down and leaned towards him, frowning.

"That wine isn't going to do you any good if you just stare at it."

He turned his glare on me then. He picked up the wine, downed it all in one go, and slammed his mug on the table. His eyes never left my face. I grabbed the jug we were using as a decanter and poured him a refill. Most of the wine ended up inside the cup.

"There you go. Cheer up, we're still going to let you go at the end of the war even if," I waved my hands around, vaguely, "there's nobody available to pay a ransom."

"Let me go? Go where? With my ancestral lands stolen and my company gone, where will I go?"

"Don't be so dramatic. There's always work to be had for a man who knows his way around the battlefield. Or," I said, smiling as the thought occurred to me, "you could come back to Westeros."

"An exile, come home in chains? That hardly sounds like letting me go free."

I paused for a moment, putting things together in my mind. I felt a strange sense of kinship with Jon Connington in that moment. Maybe it was the wine. But we'd both had our lives disrupted by the cosmic twist of fate that had brought me into this world. If things had gone according to plan he and Brynden Tully never would have met. Brynden would have spent his days in the Vale passive-aggressively spiting his brother, and Jon would have suffered whatever terrible fate had prevented him from appearing in the books.

I knew I'd changed things. But I also knew there were more powerful forces at work in the world than anything I could bring to bear. Forces beyond my understanding. Subtle spycraft and, I thought, even the supernatural. Could I really change fate? If I could make a real positive difference in Jon's life, that would suggest that I could. I'd probably derailed his death already, but what if I could do more? If I could help him, then I could help myself and my family. We were all connected by my mysterious, impossible existence.

Some of that was definitely the wine.

"You were exiled by Aerys," I said, focusing back on the moment, "Robert would forgive that just to stick his thumb in the Mad King's eye one last time."

"And all I have to do is bend the knee to the usurper?"

"Sometimes a little bit of groveling can save a lot of trouble," I said. "Why, one time there were these two women. Deana and Mina. Identical twins, save that Deana had a mole on her left cheek and Mina had a mole on her right. I-"

"Wait, you mean great-aunt Mina?" Rodrik asked, interrupting.

I blinked, losing my train of thought. It took a moment to trace the relations. The family tree in my mind's eye was fuzzy and kept swimming in and out of focus. After a moment I nodded.

"She used to bake me cookies and tell me bedtime stories," Rodrik wailed.

"That's her. She made such lovely lemon cakes," I said, nodding, "though I doubt she ever told you the story of the pirate captain and the naughty serving wench."

Rodrik lowered his head to the table, weeping softly. I waited until it became clear that he wouldn't be finished any time soon before turning to address the rest of the table. Where had I been going with that anecdote again? Oh, yes.

"While I don't recommend marrying an older woman, they do have a lot to teach a young man," I said, nodding once with conviction.

There was a general murmur of agreement around the table. I noticed that Jon Connington looked bemused, and I shook myself as I remembered his complaint.

"The point is, sometimes you have to swallow your pride to get what you want. You do want Griffin's Nest back, don't you?"

"Griffin's Roost is the barest part of my ancestor's lands. The usurper has carved them to pieces."

"Robert does have a temper," I allowed.

Or Jon Arryn was playing three dimensional chess. But if I said that I would have to explain what chess was. Then I'd have to explain Star Trek. Then I'd have to explain a whole bunch of things. I pushed the thought aside.

"The man is incapable of holding a grudge, though. It's one of his best qualities. Isn't that right?"

There was another murmur of agreement. After a moment Walder raised his glass and proposed a toast to the King's mercy. We all drank, although Connington took a little chivvying before he joined in.

"Look, I have business at court. If you come with me, bend the knee, be a good sport when Robert brags about kicking your arse in the rebellion, and-"

"He never-"

"Be a good sport," I repeated, speaking over his objection, "and make a good showing on the hunt, and I'd give even odds Robert restores your lands on the spot."

"Just like that?" Connington asked. He seemed a bit dazed by this turn of events.

"It might go more smoothly if you're betrothed to a reliable family," I said. Darla filled me in on the latest gossip whenever we saw each other whether I wanted her to or not, and this was an opportunity to advance my brother's grand plan to get the Riverlands in bed with all of Westeros. "My wife's cousin recently came of age. Tiny little thing, pale skin, dark hair. A bit quiet, if you like that sort of thing."

"My cousin Lelani needs a husband," Rodrik said, rousing himself back into a seated position. "Nobody would call her quiet."

"Not if she's anything like her grandmother," I said, chuckling. "I lost hearing out of my left ear for nearly a week."

Rodrik groaned and sank back down to rest his head on the table. I turned back to Jon.

"If you're looking for a girl with a bit more meat on her bones, Walder's got a... cousin? Half-sister? Cousin once removed? I can never keep track."

"Fat Walda," Walder announced, "shall only marry into a Great House. She will fit into no other."

He set his glass down and studied it for a moment. "I am drunk."

"There, you see?" I said to Jon. "Plenty of choices."

"You have given me much to think about."

He didn't seem as outright hostile as he did before, but he still looked skeptical. I leaned forward and pitched my voice so that it wouldn't carry beyond the two of us.

"You grew up with a dream. Then you got kicked in the balls and your whole life was torn apart. You built a new life and you just got kicked in the balls again. You're never going to have that old dream. It's gone. What you have to decide is if you're going to find a new dream, or if you're going to spend your whole life wallowing in regret."

Satisfied, I leaned back and took another swig of wine. The rest of the night passed in a bit of a blur.

ooOoo

My hangover the next morning confirmed two things. First, I was not as young as I used to be. Brynden's days of tying one on before bounding out of bed and charging off to battle might be clear in his memory, but they were in fact long past. The second fact was that even the best distilled products here had more than a bit of white lightning in their family tree.

Fortunately my hangover had largely cleared up by the afternoon when our cavalry returned. I had a feeling I needed to be at my best if I wanted to talk everybody into marching any further north.

ooOoo


	35. Chapter 35

AN: You know what would really help this war go more smoothly? Canals.

ooOoo

The Tattered Prince looked tired but satisfied as he approached me. He and Irrys reined in their horses in front of me. The Tattered Prince then reached behind him and tossed the Golden Company's standard to the ground. The gilded skulls chimed against each other as the standard bounced before settling in the dirt.

"So much for the Golden Company."

A moment of silence followed the Tattered Prince's declaration. I felt the weight of history in that moment as I studied the fallen standard. The Golden Company had been around for over seventy years. For much of that time it had been regarded as the premier sellsword company in Essos. And now they were no more. Suffering a dramatic defeat and vigorous pursuit, chased into the Sorrows without any group cohesion or supplies... some of the men might survive, but it wouldn't be the Golden Company of old.

I shook myself. I might be old, but I wasn't ready to rest on my laurels and live in nostalgia just yet. I'd press the Tattered Prince for a detailed report later, to record in my journal if nothing else, but for now I needed to focus on the future. There was still work to be done.

"We've secured their camp. We've made good progress retrieving their valuables. By the time the next supply flotilla arrives from Volantis we'll be ready to march north."

Both of them reacted with surprise, but it was Irrys who spoke first.

"March north? Why? Is over. We won! Now is time to negotiate surrender."

I kept my eyes on the Tattered Prince as I replied.

"We've spoken of songs and legends. How often do songs end with a negotiated surrender?" I asked. "Besides, imagine how differently the negotiations will go if we're camped outside the walls of Qohor."

"You're that eager to march through the Sorrows and beard the Shrouded Lord?"

Though the Tattered Prince's tone of voice was skeptical, his heart wasn't in it. I could tell that he wanted to be persuaded. I favored him with my best predatory smile.

"I think thousands of men with fire and steel are more than a match for snarks and grumkins."

ooOoo

Of course, thirst for glory alone wouldn't sustain us on the march to Qohor. Volantis wouldn't be able to supply us that far north, and foraging for supplies could really slow us down. Fortunately, the Golden Company had shown us a new path forward.

That was why I was waiting on the bank of the Rhoyne a half day's march north of the battlefield. The Golden Company's standard was planted in the ground on one side of me. A white flag on the other. A small chest sat at my feet. I was accompanied by a small cohort of men from the Sunset Legion. A larger group rested on the side of the hill a little ways away from the river. They weren't close enough to spring an ambush themselves but ought to e able to foil any attack by somebody who chose to disregard the flag of parley.

Pirates were not known for being sticklers for the rules.

We all tensed when a ship came gliding out of the fogbank to our north. I took a deep breath and relaxed my shoulders before gesturing at my men to stand down. There was a general sound of shuffling as they took their hands off their weapons and resumed their less hostile stances of a moment ago. The quiet splash of oars marked the time, the sound no longer muffled by the fog. I studied the ship as it approached.

It was a river galley. I counted a little over twenty oars split between two decks on the side facing us. While the galley might have lacked the size of an ocean-going warship, there was no mistaking this as anything other than a fighting vessel. The hull was pockmarked with scars from battles gone by. Splotchy stains had been preserved as macabre decorations, creating an impression that was at once sloppy and ominous. The boat was free of any identifying flag.

However ragged the appearance of the ship might be, the rowers were crisp and coordinated as they brought it in line with us and then reversed direction and settled into an easy rhythm, holding it in place against the current. I wondered for a moment why they didn't just drop anchor before I realized that they might not be entirely sure of my good intentions. An impression that was confirmed when a voice called out from the deck.

"You ain't the fella we met before."

I reached down and pulled open the chest sat by my feet. The contents glittered in the afternoon sun.

"My gold's just the same."

Usually that would be a statement about the value of the gold, but in this case it was literally true. The chest was filled with golden bracelets stripped from the bodies of the Golden Company. Their habit of carrying their wealth on their persons had proven quite the boon to us once more.

The man on the ship didn't say anything. He didn't order the rowers to move them away, either. I decided to press the point.

"The Golden Company offered you gold for food. They have no more need of food," I said, thumping the standard beside me, "and no more gold to spend. I'll offer you the same deal they did. Or are you patriots, who sell to one army but not another?"

That sparked some talk aboard the ship. The water carried the hum of conversation but the content was hopelessly gargled by the distance. I waited. The gentle splashing of the oars marked the time.

The conversation finally came to a halt, and the man called out once more. "You make bold claims, friend."

"I do bold deeds, friend," I replied. "If you've any interest in gold, come ashore and we can talk."

The universal rule, as applicable to investment banking as it is to piratical negotiations: by and large the person who has the gold dictates terms to the one who wants it. It would be convenient for me if this guy was willing to deal, but if he had some kind of sentimental attachment to the Golden Company I was confident I'd be able to find somebody else who was interested. I'd just rather not have to march all the way to Dagger Lake to get our food situation sorted out. Keeping everybody's spirits up in the Sorrows was going to be rough to begin with. It wouldn't be any easier if we were on half rations.

Still, a standoff between my desires and his needs was only ever going to end one way. Eventually the pirate came to the same conclusion and barked out an order. The galley turned and started forward again, grounding itself on the river bank. I was hardly an expert on such things, but it seemed to me that it hadn't grounded itself particularly high up on the bank. The impression that they were still poised for a quick getaway was reinforced when the rowers stayed in place. Only a few men from the top deck swung down to the ground and made their way over to us.

Two of the approaching pirates looked much like any other sailor. Large men, shaped by a life of hard labor that had engrained itself in the lines on their tanned faces. Their leader, however, was cut from a different cloth. Slender and graceful, he was wrapped in a cloak that was marked all over with bright pieces of silk. He would have fit right in as a bravo by the Moon Pool if not for his beard. It had been dyed bright green and was tied off in two forks after the Tyroshi fashion. His hair was hidden under the flaming red bandanna knotted across his head.

He stopped well out of arm's reach. The other two men stood at his shoulders. They left enough space clear that he wouldn't have any trouble drawing his sword, but his intentions appeared peaceful for now.

"Jaenor Caengaris," he said, giving a little bow that sent his cloak fluttering out behind him.

"Brynden Tully."

He raised an eyebrow at that. It still caught me by surprise when my reputation preceded me.

"I didn't think you barbarian knights were the sort to consort with pirates."

"Pirates?" I said, making a show of looking around. "We're at war with Qohor and Norvos. Attacking their shipping would be an act of privateering."

A smile slowly spread across his face. He cocked his head.

"You don't need to see my letter of marque?"

I waved my hand dismissively. "I'm not the sort to get hung up on paperwork."

"Come to think of it," he said, "I'm not sure just where our last prize hailed from."

I shrugged. "Tragic mistakes happen in the confusion of war. I'm no master of laws to parse out wrongdoing over every little mix up."

I waited for a moment for that to sink in before leaning forward and fixing him with a serious look. "Of course, if we're to work together more closely in the future, I expect you to avoid those kinds of mistakes going forward."

"Fair enough," he said, the amused expression leaving his face. "How's this going to work, then?"

"In two days' time we're going to be marching into the Sorrows. We'll meet you in the morning and pay for the days' food," I said. "You share the food with us after we make camp in the evening. If we make it to Dagger Lake without killing or robbing each other then we can talk about more ambitious goals."

"Oh? Suppose we need to settle on a price, then."

That was the cue for the haggling to begin. Jaenor seemed surprised that I had some idea what food ought to cost. For my part, a large part of me was still more comfortable reviewing numbers and accounts than riding out on to the battlefield. I was ready to pay a premium for supplies given our location, of course. I let him negotiate for a bit more than than that. Not enough to make me out as an easy mark, but enough to give him some incentive to keep working with us.

Once we settled on a price, he looked at me with renewed interest in his eyes. "About those other goals..."

"Attacking their shipping is all well and good," I said, then grinned. "But wouldn't it be more fun to take a prize from the Qohori navy?"

ooOoo

Two days later, our collective forces gathered just south of Chroyane. The unnatural fog of the Sorrows roiled before us, moved by winds that didn't seem to touch anything else. Just looking at it was enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Still, we were as prepared as we could be. We'd sent the bulky loot, mostly weapons and armor, downriver with the Volantine ships together with our prisoners. The gold and precious gems we'd kept on hand. The Volantines had been good enough to ferry us over to the east bank of the Rhoyne. From here until Qohor we'd be marching with the river on our left.

We had enough food in our supply train to get us through the Sorrows even if the pirates failed to show. We had enough water on hand to get us through the Sorrows as well. It was irrational to think that water in the Rhoyne got any less safe as we went upriver, but I didn't want to drink anything gathered under that evil mist. Judging from the enthusiastic reaction when I had announced our water-rationing plan, I wasn't the only one who felt that way.

Our supply wagons also contained one recuperating lieutenant. I had thought to send Petyr back to Volantis to be treated, but he had adamantly refused to be separated from the Sunset Legion. He wasn't going to have an easy ride of it, but the maester had conceded that it wouldn't actually impede his recovery.

All around the edges of the formation were men carrying torches. They were paired up with men with bows or crossbows. As we moved into the Sorrows the mists seemed to swallow the firelight. The torches still gave off enough light that the men were able to pepper the few stone men we encountered with arrows before they were close enough to threaten anyone. The marching column steered well clear of the bodies.

I felt a little bad about it, but I honestly had no choice but to give that standing order. The grey plague was a communicable disease that eventually turned its victims into rage zombies. I couldn't allow even the smallest chance that it would gain a foothold in the army.

When we set up camp we prepared it as though we were in a war zone. A ditch and rampart palisade, torches spaced around the perimeter, the works. Digging defenses in the muck was nasty work, but nobody complained. The feeling of the mist pressing down on you was enough to motivate even the most inveterate slacker into building defense on top of defense.

Jaenor showed up as promised that evening, so the men even got to enjoy full rations. All in all, I felt like the first day marching through the Sorrows went about as well as could be expected.

Then the nightmares began.

ooOoo


	36. Chapter 36

ooOoo

One little quirk of mine that is probably worth mentioning at this juncture: I never remember my dreams. I remember having had dreams. I just never remember what was in them. So I could have been spending all night since I got to Westeros seeing prophecies of the future, or browsing wikipedia, or whatever. I wouldn't know.

All of which is to say that I woke up on our first morning in the Sorrows feeling anxious and a little jumpy, but that was it. Frankly, those emotions could easily be explained by the creepy unnatural fog that we were going to be marching through for the next few weeks. I didn't have any inkling that anything was wrong until I went to fetch breakfast.

Ten pairs of bloodshot eyes turned to look at me as I approached the officers' table. My eyebrow rose almost involuntarily as I took a seat.

"I hope you didn't all spend the night tying one on."

They turned to look at each other. Through a series of glares, shrugs, and shaken heads, Rodrik was appointed their spokesman.

"You didn't hear, captain?"

"Hear what?"

"Most of the men had nightmares last night."

"Not just the men," one of the officers added.

"What sort of nightmares?"

"I saw the Shrouded Lord. He.." Rodrik trailed off, then shook his head. "I'd rather not say."

There was a general murmur of agreement around the table. I looked them over with concern. I really did sympathize, but there wasn't much I could do.

"This place is eerie enough to give anybody nightmares. If we keep moving, we'll be through it soon enough. The dreams will go away eventually."

The dreams were back again that night. By now some of the men were starting to show noticeable bags under their eyes. One night of bad dreams might have been a coincidence. Two in a row had me suspicious. I asked Jaenor if he knew anything about what was going on.

He shrugged. "The Sorrows have their ways of testing a man. Some pass. Some don't."

Left unspoken was the no doubt gruesome fate suffered by those who failed. While it was helpful to know that whatever was going on wasn't anything new, Jaenor was hardly offering me a solution to the problem. I was no pirate captain, ready to throw my crew overboard when they stopped carrying their weight.

I would have liked to devise a scientific explanation for what was going on, and use that to derive a solution. Hells, I would have settled for a superstitious explanation if it pointed us towards a cure. Unfortunately, I had a sneaking suspicion that a centuries-long fogbank covering hundreds of square miles that caused nightmares might just be beyond modern science. I'd recruited a septon to travel with us to provide blessings before battles and last rites as necessary. He was spending most of the day reciting prayers but seemed as helpless as the rest of us in stopping the nightmares.

The only resource left to draw on was a stubborn refusal to quit. That carried us through another day of marching, though the men were visibly weary and between the lack of sleep and the rough terrain we didn't cover nearly the distance I would have hoped.

The third morning I woke to find four men tied together back to back in the center of camp wearing nothing but their night clothes. They had tried to run off during the night. The sergeant tearing strips off of them was hitting the same notes that I would have: if you're so terrified of what's lurking in the mists, why run out there by yourself? I could hear the same lecture being delivered throughout the camp.

Two other men had successfully escaped our perimeter fortifications and vanished into the mists. Given the circumstances, I wasn't particularly inclined to send out search parties. That left the question of what to do with the men who had been captured.

Ordinarily the penalty for desertion would be death. The circumstances, however, were anything but ordinary. I ordered that the runners would be tied to each other and to a man in front and back, forced to march without their spears until we were out of the damned fog. I hoped that once we left the Sorrows behind the men would recover their right minds.

Another eleven men tried to run the next night. Six were caught.

The next day's march saw the first attempts to run off during the day. Subduing the deserters required a miserable muddy brawl. We barely covered half the ground that we had managed the day before. Even worse, the Tattered Prince reported that several of his outriding scouts had simply vanished into the mists. They could have suffered from the same madness as our men-the Windblown had had a similar number of night time runners-or they could have fallen victim to more conventional enemy action. I wasn't sure which scenario would be worse.

About the only bit of good news was that the pirates showed up without fail every evening after we'd made camp. Even if Jaenor Caengaris continued to be remarkably unhelpful.

"The Shrouded Lord's call is in their bones. Might as well just let them go."

I reminded myself that I was paying him for food. The advice was free, and worth every penny. He might have experience dealing with the Sorrows, but he didn't know the first thing about running an army. Displaying visible indifference to the lives of your men was one of the quicker ways I could think of to absolutely destroy morale.

The real problem wasn't that I couldn't get a good pep talk out of Jaenor. The problem was that I couldn't come up with a pep talk myself. I felt weirdly dislocated from the suffering the men were going through. I was probably having terrible dreams every night, but if I didn't remember them then I might as well never have had them in the first place. While that was a good thing from the point of view of my own mental health, it made it hard to connect with the men. I was a man tucking into a feast while trying to inspiring a starving horde to carry on.

I did put the word out to ask the men to volunteer if they felt they were near the breaking point. If we had to add people to the tied up marching chain it might damage morale, but it would be a hell of a lot better than having to subdue them by force.

The next day, our fifth of marching through the Sorrows, we had twelve people volunteer to be restrained and another three try to run off on their own. We managed to pick up the pace a bit, though we were still well off where I wanted to be. Not that we were on any particular schedule, but the faster we moved the faster we would be out of the fog.

We only had one person try to run that night. Six more volunteered to be tied up. I started to hope that we were over the hump. That things were looking up. Of course, that was the day we were attacked.

In the mists of the Sorrows it was impossible to see more than ten strides or so before everything faded to white. One moment everything was quiet. The same mucky, nasty slog that we'd been pushing through for the last week. The next instant the stone men were on us. They moved in an eerie silence and attacked without any regard for their own lives. The men on the front lines barely had time to get their pikes level before they were overrun.

More shouts drew my attention to our right flank. Another group of stone men had crashed into us from the side. The first square that they had hit had been completely unprepared, allowing several men to be tackled by the horde of zombies before their squad mates could turn and push the attackers off. Looking up and down the line where each square of a hundred men was marching independently, I could see them react to the threat by going into a defensive pincushion.

A freak gust of wind-or twitch of eldritch power, I couldn't really say-cleared much of the fog in the vicinity of the battlefield. Up ahead I could see a rise. A good fifty stone men were charging at us, but my attention was fixed on the figure at the top. He was covered in a tattered grey robe, and even from this distance I could feel the malevolence. It had an almost tangible presence as he seemed to hold me personally responsible for everything wrong with the world.

Our prisoners, the men who had needed to be tied up, they went berserk. Hissing, spitting, biting, they tried to attack their fellow legionnaires. Fortunately they were being held in the center of the square, away from the front lines. Still, it looked like ugly business getting them under control.

The long pikes proved their worth once more. If we'd been fighting off the stone men with one handed spears or, worse, swords, things could have gone differently. The stone men could suffer grievous injuries and continue fighting. They only stopped when they were physically unable to keep attacking. If they'd been able to come to grips with us they would have been able to do some major damage. Even if their bare hands wouldn't make for particularly effective weapons, their blood was a biological terror cocktail all its own.

Even for a magical plague zombie, though, crawling up twenty feet of spear planted through your guts is a tall order.

The stone men didn't show any sense of tactics or strategy. They simply charged forward, manifesting the single minded hatred of the Shrouded Lord. With the mist cleared, our crossbowmen could start whittling away at them from a distance. The stone men who survived that barrage impaled themselves on our pikes, and I felt a swell of pride. My men might be scared, but they were reacting to that fear the way a soldier should. By killing the scary things.

The clearing fog revealed that there had probably been not much more than a hundred stone men to begin with. They were unarmored and attacking with a single minded intensity. While intimidating in appearance, the main thing they were accomplishing was to die at a prodigious rate. My heartbeat started to settle as it became clear that the Shrouded Lord was going to run out of stone men before my men were going to break.

The Windblown cavalry charged up the nearly empty hill, easily evading the remaining few stone men in their path. Before they could reach the top the mist fell like a curtain, preventing the rest of us from seeing their final confrontation with the Shrouded Lord. I lost all sense of time. It could have been seconds later, it could have been minutes, but eventually the cavalry came riding back out of the mist.

Despite their best efforts, the Shrouded Lord seemed to have vanished into the fog.

We pulled back from the site of the battle before making camp. We left behind any weapons that had touched the stone men. The men who had been mauled were given mercy before we left them. Every man who had even been close to the stone men got a vinegar sponge bath, and we used vinegar to clean off any armor that looked like it had even a trace of stone man blood on it.

Oddly enough, even though we'd just seen upwards of twenty men die and had some unknown number of people at risk of greyscale, the mood in camp was cheerful. Well, cheerful in comparison to the mood the night before. I'd take a tangible enemy to fight and kill any day over nightmares and phantasms, and it seemed my men felt the same way. I decided it was time for a speech.

"Snarks. Grumkins. Night terrors," I said, then paused to look around. I at least had the attention of the men I could see through the fog. "Tonight, we are the most terrifying thing going. Little children look under their beds for monsters; the Shrouded Lord is looking under his to see if he's going to wake up with a spear up his arse!"

That brought a round of laughter. I let them settle down before I continued.

"The Sunset Legion doesn't spend the night huddled up trying to hide from danger. We are the danger! May the Mother Above show mercy to the next man who fucks with us, because I won't."

It wasn't a bed time story I'd ever tell to my kids, but the men seemed to like it.

ooOoo


	37. Chapter 37

AN: We are now on the first page of the ASoIaF section when sorted by reviews. Thanks everybody!

ooOoo

I stood straight with my hands clasped behind my back, contemplating what I was about to say. The Rhoyne was behind me, the sluggish flow of its current providing a bit of background noise. Above me the sun was visible. We were now in the thin mists on the outskirts of the Sorrows rather than the full overcast of the Sorrows themselves. Leaving that place had been a cause for celebration. Unfortunately, the three men in front of me had not come through the Sorrows unmarked.

These three were the only members of the Sunset Legion that developed symptoms of greyscale, a light but unmistakable dusting of grey on the palm of one man's hand and on the back of the other two's hands. At least, they were the only three who would admit it. I could only hope that nobody had been stupid enough to hide their symptoms. The last thing I needed was magical stone leprosy doing a slow burn through my army.

The three of them had all adopted hangdog expressions and seemed to find studying the ground a lot more interesting than meeting my eyes. The way rumors could spread they probably half expected to be executed on the spot.

"You did well, pushing the Stone Men back from our flanks," I began. "If not for your brave actions, many more lives could have been lost."

They all straightened up a bit at the praise.

"The good news," I continued, "is that you have grey scale. Not the grey death."

They all had very similar puzzled expressions on their faces. To be fair, it's not like I knew the difference before I talked to the maester to prepare for this little chat.

"If you had the grey death, you'd be dead and the rest of us would be infected by now."

I paused for a moment to let that sink in.

"The bad news is that catching greyscale is still pretty fucking bad."

The man on the left gestured back towards the Sorrows. "Are we gonna turn into... them?"

"The Stone Men are what you get when you dump a poor bastard in the wilderness and leave him untreated for years," I replied. "That said, sometimes the treatment doesn't work. Greyscale can be fatal. If you wish it, you will be granted... mercy."

I paused again. None of the men volunteered for execution. I hadn't really expected them to, but it helped to impress the seriousness of the situation on them.

"All right. Here's what you are going to do. Every morning you will be given a clean rag. You will soak it in vinegar and wrap it around the affected area. You will burn the old rag. You will never touch the affected area to any unaffected part of your body. You will never touch another person with the affected area. If you do not follow this directions, you will be executed. I will not have disease spread through this company by carelessness."

I looked them over. That last pronouncement seemed to have shifted them from feeling sorry for themselves to feeling a bit of fear of me. That was probably for the best. History was replete with examples of maesters who had spent much of their lives treating or studying greyscale without contracting the disease by following similar safety precautions. It was also replete with examples of maesters who had caught greyscale thanks to moments of carelessness.

"It wouldn't hurt to pray for the gods to contain the disease," I said. "There's also the option of removing the infected area. I'd recommend you take a few days to think on it before making that choice."

If carefully tended, greyscale progressed by slow expansion from the first affected location. It was possible to cut off a hand and then never see greyscale develop anywhere else on the body. Unfortunately, it was just as possible to cut off a hand and then have another random patch of greyscale appear and begin to expand. Rushing to start chopping off limbs was, according to the maester, not a great plan.

I waited a moment to see if there were any further questions, then dismissed the men. They filed over to the nearby maester to receive their bandage and vinegar rations. He took a moment to give them a little more detail on the proper course of treatment. Really, though, all we could do was try to tilt the odds in our favor. The rest would be in the hands of the gods.

Over the next few days several more men reported greyscale symptoms. I didn't press too hard as to whether they were newly developed or whether they had reported in response to my relatively humane treatment of the first men to come forward. I just repeated my expectations of them and bid the maester to keep an eye on them.

I could only hope that I was doing the right thing.

ooOoo

The advantage that a military galley had over pirates came down to economics. There was no technological edge available. One galley was pretty much like another. They'd all be wielding more or less the same sorts of weapons and wearing more or less the same sort of armor. The difference was that pirates had to worry about profit and loss, while a war galley only had to worry about military effectiveness.

Every member of a pirate crew beyond the minimum needed to overpower merchant vessels was a drain on the money paid out to everybody else. A pirate with truly grand aspirations might be able to overcome that problem by fielding so many ships as to defeat any military challenges and so bring in more profit, but your average river pirate was operating on a hit and run basis. If they tried to make a stand their enemies would be able to flood them with so many ships that loss was inevitable, so there was really no point trying to max out the military power of the ship. Instead, they focus on keeping a relatively small crew that's strong enough to tackle civilian shipping and fast enough to get away from military patrols.

All the math changed when you added thousands of allied sellswords into the equation. Once we passed Ar Noy we took to stuffing the galley full of Windblown soldiers and sending it up ahead of our marching column. The Windblown did their best to stay out of sight and leave the ship looking like an ordinary, albeit bold, pirate galley.

We were two days past Ar Noy when somebody finally took the bait.

I was riding near the head of the army. Ahead of me was a ragtag band of volunteers from the Windblown and the Sunset Legion. They were wearing little more than armor and smallclothes, and the Sunset Legionnaires among them had traded in their pikes for coils of rope tipped with grappling hooks. Many of the Windblown had rope looped over their shoulders as well. Everybody was armed with at least one weapon suitable for close quarters melee fighting. The legionnaires had their bowie knives, while the Windblown sported a motley assortment of gear ranging from axes to daggers to cutlasses to what looked like some kind of whip sword.

The Tattered Prince was big on discipline, but he was no stickler for standardized equipment.

However unusual their appearance, the group had no lack of eagerness for battle. When the telltale sounds of fighting drifted back to us from the direction of the river, they all raced forward. I let my horse out into a trot to keep up.

My heart leapt when the ships came into view. Not only had a Qohorik war galley taken the bait and closed to melee range with our ship, but Jaenor Caengaris had managed to maneuver so that the enemy galley was closer to our shore, and quite close to the shore. The two ships had come to a standstill, apparently run aground in the shallows by the shore. From the sounds of things, the battle was quite fierce. The galleys' decks both sat atop two levels of oars and were a bit too high for me to make out the state of things.

In all likelihood the Windblown aboard the galley should be enough to carry the day. Of course, there was no reason not to try and tip the odds further in our favor. As the ragtag group ahead of me came even with the ships, they turned and ran into the water without hesitation. Those with ropes began to ready to toss their grappling hooks, while those without prepared to follow them up the sides.

One man in Sunset Legion armor had other ideas. When the rope tossers paused to ready their throws, he raced on ahead. With the rowers pressed into battle, many of the oars from the lower set ports were resting on the riverbed. The upper set were largely hanging loose against the side of the ship. The eager legionnaire jumped onto one of the lower oars and raced up it until he reached the side of the ship. There he leaped up and caught hold of the upper oar port, hauling himself into a standing position.

He was searching for a handhold to scramble the rest of the way up onto the deck when an enemy soldier finally noticed what was happening. The soldier leaned over the side and stabbed down at him with a spear. The legionnaire swayed wildly out of the way, then lunged back and caught hold of the spear. He pulled hand over hand on the spear as he ran up the side of the ship, finally taking hold of the enemy soldier and yanking him over the side as he pulled himself up onto the deck.

Something about that guy seemed familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

The rest of the squad hadn't been idle, of course. Using the ropes they steadily made their way up the side of the enemy ship. In the press of battle the Qohorik sailors hadn't kept watch on their shoreward side. The unfortunate soldier with the spear was the only one who even tried to stop our men from boarding. Once they were under attack from both sides the enemy quickly surrendered.

Just like that, our navy doubled in size.

ooOoo

We added three more galleys to our little flotilla before Qohor got wise and pulled back its river patrols. After that, our progress was uneventful. Well, uneventful for us. It was the usual sort of rolling disaster for the locals that an enemy army on the march always is. This far north we were well past the point of being able to ferry in supplies, even if our shipping wasn't tied up by being ready to fight. That meant we were foraging on the go, which in turn meant that we were stealing food from anybody who had it that was in our path.

I honestly didn't feel bad about it at all. Perhaps it was because by local standards we were practically saints. All three sellsword companies enforced a very strict no rape policy. We didn't kill anybody who didn't offer us armed resistance. We didn't even loot valuables. Admittedly that last was for logistical reasons rather than moral qualms, but still. To live in a market town, have a hostile army march through, and only lose the large stockpiles of foodstuffs? That's a pretty good deal.

Having to forage did slow us down a bit, but overall we made decent time. As we marched ever closer to Qohor, I started to wonder at the lack of organized opposition. By now they had to realize that we were coming. Of course, unless they were keeping a sellsword company in reserve it wasn't like they had a lot of options. And after hiring the Golden Company, why would you hire anybody else? If Qohor was busy training up a citizen army it would make sense to hold them back to fight with the advantage of city walls.

It still felt strange, marching on for mile after mile without encountering resistance. In Westeros, every little hamlet was expected to be able to raise a squad of fighting men. Those squads would glom together into regional assemblies to produce local militias. Essos had developed far more specialization. There were professional merchants, professional farmers, and professional soldiers. It was probably more efficient but Qohor was in a tight spot with their professional army gone.

We were less than a week's march away from Qohor proper when we crested a rise and their defensive strategy became visible to us. A line of soldiers stretched from the river on their right all the way to a sheer cliff on their left. The range of hills to our right had been growing more rugged with time. It appeared that the Qohorik forces had elected to make their stand at the point where the hills became nearly impassable. If we wanted to find another way into the city it would involve a lot of backtracking and extended circling around.

A fleet of over twenty galleys was anchored in the river. We wouldn't be getting through that way. If we wanted to keep moving towards the city we were going to have to go through this army.

We kept moving forward. As we drew closer, more details about the enemy forces came into focus. A chill ran down my spine when I finally connected what I was seeing to what I knew. This wasn't just any sellsword company we were going to have to fight past.

Qohor had called out its Unsullied.

ooOoo


	38. Chapter 38

AN: Sorry about the missed update.

ooOoo

The Unsullied maintained a rigid schedule. Every morning shortly after sunrise they would file out of their camp and take up their defensive line. At noon camp followers would pass among them, sharing out food and water. Come sunset, they retired back to their camp.

This was not an army seeking out the best possible defensive terrain. This was a challenge. A rebuke: you will advance this far and no further.

We settled into a camp of our own to scout out our opposition and decide on a strategy. The tactical situation was simple. We were facing more or less Qohor's entire cohort of three thousand Unsullied. They were stretched in a line three deep across our path. Behind them were another two or three ranks of men armed with a motley assortment of slings, bows, and crossbows. These troops had more the look of a city guard than hardened soldiers, but they were more than capable of firing missiles from behind a wall of Unsullied. A block of a hundred or so Unsullied waited in reserve near the crest of the hill.

All of this was visible from where the Tattered Prince, Irrys, and myself sat mounted a short ride from our camp. What was not so straightforward was what we were going to do next.

"We have pushed them hard," the Tattered Prince said. "Qohor will offer generous terms."

He offered that assessment without turning his head from the study of the Unsullied soldiers. They stood tall and proud in the slanting rays of the evening sun. Presumably they sweat and itched like any other man but none of them seemed to move.

"Piss on that," I said. "This is it! If we break through this line the city is ours."

"As simple as that," the Tattered Prince said. He had turned to address me but spoke so softly that it was hard to make out his words. His eyes seemed focused on a distant sight from the past. "Have you ever fought the Unsullied?"

"I've listened to a slaver try to sell me on the abominations in Astapor."

He shook his head. "If you have not fought them then you cannot truly know what it is to face soldiers who will never break. Lop an arm off and they will try to kill you with the other. Run them through and they will pull themselves along your sword to strike at you. Strike down ten in great fury and the eleventh will not hesitate to step forward."

I looked to Irrys. The commander of the Long Lances had looked enthusiastic at my initial declaration. Now he shook his head.

"I am sorry, my friend. You teach me danger of disciplined men with spear."

I felt anger coursing through me. I thought of the dusty square in Astapor. The slaver and his enthusiastic description of the hellish training inflicted on unwilling slaves. The dead bodies produced along the way as failures were culled and the successful were put through ever more inventive tortures. I was not truly angry at my companions but I could tell that my emotion was coloring my tone.

"Are the Unsullied the kings of the battlefield then?" I snapped. "All must flee the unstoppable slave soldiers?"

"They are not unstoppable," the Tattered Prince said. He spoke slowly, either measuring his thoughts or attempting to placate me. "In broken terrain or in cities... alone or with few companions, they die much like normal men. Foolish commanders might position them poorly or sound a foolish retreat."

He looked back over the opposing lines for a long moment. Finally, he shook his head.

"They will not be moved from that spot. I'd wager their commander's life is forfeit if he should advance or retreat from that line. When they hold a position and refuse to be moved... it took twenty-five thousand Dothraki riders to kill two thousand of them. And we do not have twenty-five thousand riders on our side."

I knew the story of the Three Thousand of Qohor, of course. It was an impressive act of courage on the part of the Unsullied. But for my money it was also a cautionary lesson about the Dothraki tactical mindset: if charging straight at the enemy doesn't work, try it again but scream louder next time. There was a reason Westerosi lords didn't sit up at night worrying about a Dothraki invasion, and it wasn't just that they lacked ships.

"We have no Dothraki at all, and we're better off for it," I said. "Do you truly not want to press an attack?"

"What I want has nothing to do with it," he replied. "What I know is that throwing my men at that line would be a waste of time. And a waste of money. A failed attack would only hurt our bargaining position."

I turned to look at Irrys. He shrugged and shook his head.

I would have been willing to accept a negotiated end to this war after Selhorys. A quick victory and a modest payday would have suited me just fine. Having come this far and done so much, though, I wanted to finish the job. Not just that, I wanted to prove that the Unsullied could be beaten. I could choose to avoid this fight, but what about later? What if some invader brought thousands of Unsullied into my homelands? There would come a time when I would have to fight those cockless bastards. Now seemed as good a time as any.

ooOoo

The meeting at my command tent that evening started on a more belligerent note. I suppose that was my doing.

"Fuck those slave soldiers! I want to stomp them into the mud. Fuck negotiating with their masters!"

I had kept this meeting small. I didn't want to encourage contention and backbiting throughout the ranks by airing my grievances with our allied leaders. I probably shouldn't be speaking of them at all, but I was so frustrated that I had to talk to somebody. It was either that or leading a one man suicide charge on the Unsullied lines.

Petyr was propped up on a cot lying along one side of the tent. Rodrik, Walder, and I sat on camp stools gathered around a folding table that had been placed next to the cot. A sketch of our surrounding area and the position of the enemy forces sat on top of the table and had absorbed the lion's share of our attention. Unfortunately, no matter how long I spent staring at the map the simple reality of the situation was unchanged.

"The other captains won't attack?" Petyr asked.

He sounded almost personally offended. If he'd been in better health I'm sure he would have worked himself into full-on righteous indignation. His injuries may have sapped his physical vigor but they had done nothing to change his aggressive instincts. Petyr always wanted to seize the initiative and press on his enemy's weak spots until they broke. The only difficulty lay in finding a weak spot in the Unsullied.

The maester had repeatedly assured me that Petyr would make a full recovery. It was just a matter of time. Petyr clearly felt that it was taking too much time. Every day he would push himself to do at least a little bit more than he had the day before. To be honest I couldn't say if it was helping or hurting his health overall but I could hardly fault the effort. At the moment he was capable of walking for about ten or twenty paces before exhausting himself. He could stand or sit unaided for almost half an hour. Still, even if he wasn't going to be involved in military action for a long time, I thought he had earned the right to be involved in the planning stages. Not that we were planning much at the moment.

I pulled myself from my musings for long enough to shake my head in response to Petyr's question.

"What will we do, then?" Rodrik asked.

"Nothing."

Waiting wasn't necessarily the worst thing in the world. The people of Qohor couldn't be happy to have their final line of defense outside of the city walls. Every day that passed was another day for that to wear on them and for them in turn to pressure their leaders to make peace. On the other hand, it was also another day for Qohor to train up a citizen's army or recruit another pack of sellswords.

"Nothing?" Rodrik echoed.

I shrugged. "There's no point in a parley when we're at odds among ourselves. And if we want to attack we'll have to do it without any support from the Windblown or the Long Lances."

"It's strange," Walder said, "men who would happily charge the Golden Company refuse to fight the Unsullied."

I thought back to the words of the Tattered Prince. He had described the Golden Company as men like any others. When he spoke of the Unsullied it sounded more like he was describing some kind of supernatural creature. As though we were facing an army of flesh golems rather than men. Although it wasn't quite fair to say that he would never fight them.

"They'll fight the Unsullied if the terrain gives an advantage," I said, "or if there were some way to fight them one at a time."

I traced my finger along the map as I continued. "With the river and the cliff protecting them, we can't turn their flanks. Their fleet prevents us from sailing past and attacking them from behind."

Their fleet actually outstripped ours by such a margin that we had grounded our galleys near our camp for protection. Any attempt to take them would allow for continual reinforcement from our army, so they were safe enough. I suspected our pirate allies would have preferred to slink away downriver. As it happened, though, we were only able to sail all five vessels through heavy use of the windblown as rowers and fighters. The pirate crew was spread between the entire navy to manage things. They could make their escape on their original galley with the pay they'd been given, but any hope of keeping all of the captured boats hinged on our continued success. I still half-expected to wake up every morning to find four beached galleys and no pirates in camp.

All three of us frowned as we stared down at the map. A moment later, Rodrik broke the silence.

"If we beat them here, it would really prove something, wouldn't it? That free men can beat slaves?"

I smiled. "Not quite once and for all, but yes. It would certainly hurt their reputation and help ours."

Even in my wildest fever dreams I didn't think I could travel the world and stomp out all of the Unsullied. If I could break their aura of invincibility, though, that would be something. Driving down the price that people were willing to pay for Unsullied could put a real crimp on the production line. They weren't cheap to train up, after all. It wasn't quite the stuff of songs, but I'd be happy with anything I could do to head off a world subjugated by slave armies and dragons.

"We could attack by ourselves," Petyr said. "If we succeeded, surely the others would join in?"

Petyr reached out and rotated the map. From my perspective I was no longer looking at the battlefield from our position but rather staring down at it from the side. The line representing the Unsullied cut a ruler-straight slash across the terrain. Usually that would be an approximation but in this case it was probably the line on the map that lacked precision compared to the Unsullied arrayed three deep across the battlefield.

I tapped my chin. Something about that image was catching at my imagination, but I was having a hard time pinning it down.

"Yes Petyr," I said, grasping at the thought that was just out of reach but drawing closer by the second. "Yes, we could attack."

ooOoo


	39. Chapter 39

AN: The lowdown on the showdown as the legion throws down by Qo-town.

ooOoo

The sun rose behind a curtain of cloud cover the next day. It would likely burn off by noon, but for now it provided much needed relief from the heat. For as far north as we'd marched the surrounding climate had stayed quite warm and the last few weeks had seen the start of one of the little warm spells that made surviving a multi-year winter possible.

Being as we'd be marching west to east, the cloud cover also meant that we could make a morning attack without the sun in our eyes. I counted that as a mark in our favor. Once I'd made the decision to attack I wanted to get to it as soon as possible. Delay only invited second-guessing.

By mid-morning I had the Sunset Legion kitted out and ready for action. They were gathered around me in tightly packed half-circles lined up one behind the other all the way up our hill. It wasn't exactly an auditorium, but most of them should at least be able to see me. They'd probably be able to hear me too. I couldn't match Robert Baratheon's booming voice, but Brynden Tully did have a lifetime of experience in making himself heard above the din of battle.

"There's a bunch of slave soldiers lined up over there," I called out, projecting from my diaphragm, "and we're going to kill most of them today!"

That brought an approving murmur from the crowd.

"For years sellswords have been running from those cunts, but we don't run!" I said, then paused. "I should say, we don't run away from anybody. We run towards the poor fuckers we're fighting!"

I looked around. The orange fabric inlay in the legionnaires' helmets gave the impression that the hillside was on fire, even in the dim morning light. The white feathers of the line sergeants and red feathers of the square lieutenants stood out in contrast. My own helmet was decorated with a veritable crest of red feathers. It looked like something a barbarian warlord might wear, which was probably fitting.

"They say these fuckers will die before they run. I say that means we don't have to chase them down to kill them!" I continued. "Don't stop moving! Don't stop attacking! If the Warrior himself stands before you, strike him down and trample over his body!"

That brought another round of cheers, and some of the men began beating on the ground with the butt of their pikes. I waited for them to quiet down.

"The maester has Lord Baelish tied to a bed, so he won't be joining us," I said. That wasn't precisely accurate. Petyr was actually strapped onto a horse and under strict instructions to stay with the Windblown cavalry, since he had insisted on at least watching the battle. "But we can't go to battle one man short."

With that I bent down and picked up the pike laying on the ground in front of me. I held it over my head with both hands like a trophy to the loudest cheers yet.

"Now form up! We've got work to do."

ooOoo

I had a few reasons to take Petyr's place in the column instead of commanding from the rear. Today's battle wasn't going to be some kind of tactical chess match. It was going to be a knock down drag out slugfest that would test our willpower and raw strength. Having the Blackfish in the thick of things should give the men a shot of confidence. I was also curious. I had heard so much about the Unsullied that I wanted to see them fight firsthand.

I was going to get that chance. It took a little while for the men to take their positions for the battle. Once they did I found myself ten rows from the front line. I had nine men standing on my left and ten men standing on my right. The entire Sunset Legion had been drawn up into a column twenty men wide and roughly one hundred and fifty men deep.

We stood aimed at the center of the enemy line. There was nothing subtle about our intentions, although it did cross my mind to wonder if the opposing commander was taking our threat seriously. The Windblown and the Long Lances were armored up and mounted ready for battle. Of course, they wouldn't be moving off our hillside until the battle was decided one way or the other. My fellow commanders hadn't begrudged me my right to launch this attack, but they had adamantly refused to join in.

The line sergeants called out their readiness up and down the column. I heard the shout from behind us, and the drums began to play. I started marching on cue, relaxing as I found myself in step with everybody else. While I hadn't marched with the Legion in battle, I had spent my fair share of time in training.

We began moving at a normal marching pace. It was the sort of ground eating stride that the men around me could maintain for hours on end. I might be a few years past being able to match them on a day-long march, but I was confident that I could keep up for the duration of a battle. The first bit of ground we had to cover was a gentle downhill slope, which made things even easier. We could have been in the middle of a training exercise.

The front rank reached the bottom of the hill. I followed them onto the flat ground a few strides later. Behind us, the drum picked up the pace. We broke into a jog. This was where practice and experience began to come into play. The pace was hardly punishing for a fit young man, but keeping in step with everybody else was a challenge. My heartbeat picked up as much from excitement as exertion when the column surged forward as one.

We reached the end of the flat land and started moving up hill. The rolling hills here weren't particularly steep but they were challenging enough for a man on the wrong side of forty. I started feeling the burning of exertion in my legs, but it was easy to ignore. My heart was pounding with the anticipation of battle.

We closed in on the enemy lines. I could make out individual Unsullied soldiers as we drew nearer. Their faces were flat and expressionless. They could have been statues for all that they reacted to our approach. They were all wearing matching breastplates over skirts of leather reinforced with sewn in metal bits of armor. Each of them had their spear and shield held at the ready. Their iconic spiked caps glistened even in the cloudy gloom.

The missile troops behind them were not nearly so stoic. They began firing at us even as most of their attacks fell well short of our front line. From this distance it would have taken a miracle of a shot even to kill an unarmored man. We had entered into what I knew from my talks with the other commanders to be the far edge of the Unsullied baiting zone. The preferred tactic for sellswords faced with Unsullied troops was to dance forwards and backwards into this zone, loosing missile attacks on the Unsullied in the hopes of baiting them into an attack that might render them vulnerable.

We had other plans.

The drums picked up in pace again. We broke into a near run. This was the fastest pace we could manage while still maintaining a good formation. My legs were burning in earnest now and I was heaving in great gulps of air, but it wouldn't be long now. A second volley of missile weapons clattered down around us. I heard a clang as a sling bullet struck the armor of the man next to me, but I didn't see anybody fall down. A heartbeat later we made contact.

I had my pike held at an angle to hang over the head of the man in front of me, my left hand higher up and almost touching against his back. Everyone around me was in the same position except for the five ranks at the front of the column who had their pikes down and ready to attack. The violence of the initial collision created a sort of shock wave moving back down the column. All around me people stumbled as they were pushed into taking an awkward half step.

The three ranks of Unsullied who had been forced to absorb the attack were more or less blown back off their feet. The Sunset Legion stutter stepped, then surged forward with renewed vigor. The archers now staring down the brunt of our attack immediately turned to flee but received pikes to the back before they made it very far. We kept pushing forward, trampling the downed Unsullied underfoot. I would have liked to pause and knife them to make sure, but there was no time. We had to keep moving.

Our front line was just closing in on the reserve square of Unsullied when a whistle pierced through the noise of the battlefield from behind us. I stopped, brought my pike to stand straight up and down, and rotated ninety degrees to the left. The nine men who had been to my left had done the same, while the ten men who had been to my right had turned the other direction.

I took advantage of the brief pause to catch my breath and survey the battlefield. The difference between normal troops and the Unsullied was clearly illustrated in that moment. The missile troops Qohor had thrown together for this fight had already broken and started to run. It almost looked like what you would see if you slammed your first against a table covered with a line of sand: the troops closest to us had separated the farthest from the Unsullied and were a quarter of the way to clearing our formation, while the troops farther away were just starting to run. The Unsullied, on the other hand, had hardly reacted at all.

The terrain had prevented us from attacking the Unsullied from the flank, so we made our own.

What had been a line of men three deep and a thousand men wide was now two lines three men wide and five hundred men deep. On each side they were faced with a block of pikemen ten men deep and a hundred and fifty men wide. The whistle blasted again and we began to advance.

The Unsullied were relentless, remorseless, fearless killers. But they were still bound by human physical limitations. Each of the three men at the front of the line was facing attack not just from four of five of the legionnaires directly facing them, but also from many of the men standing to their sides. Iron willpower or no, they were struck down almost as soon as they came in reach of our pikes.

The legion advanced at a steady pace. Our block of troops began to bend in a bit as the men who were face to face with the Unsullied moved slower than those who faced no opposition, while everybody who saw a chance to hit the Unsullied from the side naturally angled their march inward. I kept a wary eye on the shape. A little bit of bend was ok, even desirable, as it allowed for more pikes attacking each Unsullied. Too much bend could open us up to a counterattack.

Our sergeants had been briefed on the matter, and I only intended to intervene if something went horribly wrong. Most of my attention was focused on the main reason I had attached myself to the front of the column: the Unsullied reserve. If they moved to attack us I needed to break my section of the legion away from the main body and turn to defend our flank.

I heard a whip crack and the reserve force began to move. I started to shout an order but held my tongue when I saw what the Unsullied were doing. They weren't marching toward us but rather moving in parallel to us. They were moving quickly, almost running, but their course didn't take them close to us at all. They caught up with our advance and kept going rather than turning and trying to take our flank. They kept moving until they were well ahead of our line of advance and then came to a stop, turning smartly to face downhill toward us.

The fleeing missile troops were almost upon the Unsullied when they stopped. I watched in shock as the two groups came together... and the Unsullied started attacking their own allies.

"Fuck me!"

I wasn't the only one keeping an eye on that situation. My fellow legionnaire had summed up my reaction quite nicely. I could understand feeling frustration with soldiers who broke and ran, but I couldn't imagine what the opposing commander hoped to accomplish by attacking his own men. As I watched the fleeing troops split to go around the Unsullied. Well, most of them did. A fair few elected to stand out of spear range and start firing at their erstwhile allies.

I shook my head. "Don't get distracted. We've got our own problems!"

Indeed, the fighting was spreading out closer and closer to our edge of the formation. With the missile troops out of the way the Unsullied were clear to reposition themselves. Their troops that had been on the rear of the formation had been marching forward and outward, gradually increasing the width of the front. Where three men standing abreast had been killed almost immediately, and ten men had occasioned only a slight pause, twenty and thirty were proving to be more of a challenge.

It was honestly intimidating. We had already wreaked terrible destruction upon them. The battlefield was littered with dead Unsullied. We had paid a price visible in the colorful forms of downed legionnaires here and there on our line of advance, but the balance of casualties was overwhelmingly in our favor. Any normal opposition would have long since fled. The Unsullied not only didn't run, they didn't hesitate to march towards the grinding slaughter.

The fighting was close enough now that I could see it in detail. An Unsullied soldier stepped forward, catching three spear points on his shield. The impact forced him to take a step back. He ducked under another spear thrust, then stepped forward and threw a javelin. The throw caught a legionnaire in the face, his head snapping back as he fell to the ground. Another pike finally struck home in the leg of the Unsullied. He reached back and drew a spear from his back as he fell to the ground, twisting to try to launch another attack before three more pikes stabbed down and he fell still.

Our advance slowed, almost stuttering to a halt. I could feel the nervousness starting to creep in. We kept killing Unsullied and still they kept coming.

Then a shout rang out over the fighting.

"Death or glory!"

I turned to see a horse racing into the battle. It took me a moment to recognize Petyr sitting on its back. He had somehow gotten hold of the Golden Company's standard and was brandishing it overhead. He was swaying dangerously in the saddle and likely would have fallen if he wasn't tied in place, but he kept screaming like a madman and urging the horse onward.

He trampled over an Unsullied and then was past us.

Behind him rode the entire Windblown cavalry, swords out and flashing down as they laid into the Unsullied with a will.

ooOoo


	40. Chapter 40

AN: I don't think it's too much of a spoiler to note that the rest of the fic won't be as battle heavy as things have been lately. You know what that means? Politics, yay!

ooOoo

The sounds of celebration filtered through the walls of my tent. I was alone, staring down at the folding table where an array of reports had been gathered. I wasn't reading the words on the page. Instead, my mind kept replaying scenes from the battle. An Unsullied soldier rising from the ground just far enough to drive a spear upward into the thigh of a legionnaire. Another impaled twice in the stomach, methodically throwing a javelin from point blank range. Another left for dead stabbing straight upward, spitting an unfortunate legionnaire.

Over two hundred dead. More to come as the maester dealt with the wounded.

Brynden Tully had been introduced to war as a young man with little more on his mind than to close with the enemy in pursuit of glory. He grew into a leader of men, often taking charge of scouting detachments. He was no stranger to life and death decisions. But while his advice was often valued, he had never been responsible for deciding whether a battle was worth fighting in the first place. Weighing potential loss of life against potential gains was a new experience for me.

Now that the potential loss of life had turned into actual deaths I was having a hard time deciding that it was worth it. We'd won a greater bounty from Qohor, but in exchange we'd lost upwards of one in ten of the men. Everyone in the Sunset Legion lost a friend today. It would take an awful lot of gold to make up for that loss.

A knock on the tentpost drew me from my thoughts. I looked up to see Rodrik Lolliston lingering in the doorway.

"Will you be joining the victory feast, captain?"

I snorted. "Another couple victories like that and we won't have an army left."

Rodrik smiled and shook his head. "To hear the other companies talk nobody else would have an army left at all doing what we did. The Unsullied have never been beaten like that before."

That was something. Not just the bragging rights, though those were nice too, but to puncture the myth of invulnerability carried by the Unsullied. If some poor bastard had to face down a line of slave soldiers marching through the Riverlands, at least he'd do it knowing they could be beaten. With luck we'd provide the blueprint others could follow.

We'd paid a high price today but if our efforts kept the Unsullied out of Westeros it would be well worth it.

I stood, squared my shoulders and pasted a smile on my face before following Rodrik outside. Whatever doubts I might harbor, it wouldn't do the men any good to see me moping around.

ooOoo

The end of the battle has gone about as smoothly as we could reasonably have hoped. Finishing off the Unsullied was a nasty, dangerous business, but the rest of Qohor's troops proved more human. The sailors in the galleys cut and run long before we could reach the shore, rowing hard up the Qhoyne. The ragtag band of missile troops fled before doing any noticeable damage to our men, and proved easy enough to round up. A bunch of them helped us finish off the last knot of Unsullied, and I suspected they'd be willing to join up with us if we were willing to trust them that far.

Prying apart that last group revealed the location of the Qohorik commander. Our impromptu allies set upon him with a will, killing him in brutal fashion before he had a chance to surrender. Our men on the scene were at first too shocked to react then rather disinclined to risk themselves protecting an enemy. Once he was dead his killers were all too happy to explain themselves.

As they explained it, Qohor is run by a city council. They had their own fancy name for it, but that's basically what it was. There were five or six major political parties, depending on how you counted it. They would ally with each other to achieve temporary majorities but none of them really trusted each other. They were all savvy enough to recognize that control of the Unsullied was a de facto monopoly on force within Qohor, and paranoid enough not to want another party to have that level of control. The usual practice was to divide up the Unsullied between the parties. They were only put under unified command in times of crisis.

When looking for a commander the wise elders of Qohor were not looking for a brilliant military mind. They were looking for a man who would do his duty and then relinquish control of the Unsullied. In other words, they needed a diehard, hidebound, fanatical patriot. Once they found their man he was put in command of the Unsullied and a mix of supplementary troops drawn from the city watch, private security forces, slaves, and volunteers.

What I had taken to be a reserve force had actually been assembled by the commander as his personal guard when his non-Unsullied troops expressed their opinion of his intention to defend the city to the last drop of their blood. He had kept them in line through threats of immediate execution by Unsullied, and had decided to follow up on that threat rather than try to relieve his overextended forces after our breakthrough.

After hearing all that I couldn't blame them for extracting some rough justice. I would have liked to have the man as a hostage, but it didn't sound like anybody in Qohor would have put a particularly high value on his life.

The remainder of the march up the river passed without incident. Our pirate friend kept his boats close to the shore in case Qohor tried to launch a surprise naval attack, but we were within sight of the city walls before we saw another galley. I would guess that our last battle exhausted the Qohorik appetite for taking chances.

The city walls themselves were quite well constructed. Twenty-odd feet high, very solidly built. I was happy that that was all there was to them. No absurdly high dragonproofed fortifications. No esoteric fantasy materials used in the construction. Just a well built, well maintained wall. It could have been a significant barrier, if Qohor had an army to man it and hadn't had a surrounding forest that could be used to build siege machinery.

I didn't want to have to storm the city. I'd lost enough men fighting in this war already. Of course it wouldn't do to let our enemies know about that. If I wanted to convince them to surrender they would have to believe that I was perfectly willing to take what I wanted through force. The upcoming parley would be as much about attitude and showmanship as it would be a rational discussion.

We set up for the parley out of bowshot from the city, but not far out of bowshot. We arranged three covered wagons on either side of the road leading to the main gate, then set up portable chairs on the road itself for each of the members of our party. The Tattered Prince, Irrys, and myself were there, of course. I also had Petyr, Rodrik, and Walder with me. Jon Connington sat on the far side of our group, while the last member of our party was a man from the Windblown who claimed to be able to speak the Qohorik dialect of low Valyrian. A handful of armed men lurked behind us, acting in concert with the mounted Long Lances a short distance away to discourage our negotiating counterparts from trying anything underhanded.

Irrys and the Tattered Prince had agreed to let me take the lead in the negotiations. They had seemed more willing than before to defer to me in general after the victory over the Unsullied, although I hadn't tried pushing anything outrageous. For the moment my leadership dictated that we plant the flag of parley in the road and sit back and wait for somebody to show up.

It didn't take long for the gates to open. The group that rode out to meet us was one of the oddest that I had ever seen. There were ten of them, and their armor was amazing. Beautiful, rich color, intricate detail work, stunning artistic design, the works. The only armor I had seen back in Westeros that could even compare was Tywin Lannister's monument to golden excess. The problem was that the men wearing the armor were sat atop horses that would have looked more at home pulling carts than riding into war, and from the way the men were sitting they may well have been driving those carts this morning.

The man at the head of the group at least seemed to have some martial training, though he still fell well short of the standard I would have expected of somebody in his getup. It was full plate armor in gleaming black steel worked so as to appear that an enormous snake was wrapped around him. The uppermost coil merged into his helm, a gleaming piece of art fashioned into the likeness of a snake's head. Precious metals had been shaped to form individual scales, and a pair of rubies gleamed from its eyesockets.

I couldn't resist turning to the Tattered Prince. "Armor that fancy has to have a name. What do you think? Snakebit? Snakebiter, maybe?"

"I couldn't possibly say," he replied, shrugging. Sometimes Essosi just don't get it.

"What about you, Petyr?"

"Brightfang Souldrinker," Petyr said, not missing a beat.

I whistled. "You're right. That is exactly what my brother would call that monstrosity if I brought it home with me."

As we watched the group of them formed up in a ragged line even with the farthest pair of wagons. The serpent armored man swung off his horse and walked forward. As he did, he opened his visor-the helmet was designed so that it looked like a snake opening its mouth-revealing a young man of two and twenty, at most.

I turned to our translator.

"Tell him to piss off. We're not here to waste time talking to messengers. If anybody in that city wants to see another moon they'd best send out somebody worthwhile to negotiate."

The translator said something in that gobbledygook language of theirs. Judging by the way the snake man's face darkened as he spoke, I'd say he managed to get across the gist of my words. When the translator fell silent, I could see the jaw muscles on his face working as he ground his teeth. Rather than say anything, he snapped his visor shut and mounted his horse before riding back to the city. The other nine men stayed in place. We sat there in a rather awkward silence for what felt like a much longer wait before the gate opened once more.

Four older men walked out of the city under their own power. They didn't move particularly quickly, but they didn't strike me as particularly decrepit. They seemed far more comfortable in their rich clothing than their honor guard did in their fancy armor. Coupled with what seemed to be a faintly disdainful attitude, it seemed to me that we had some real decision makers on our hands. They walked into the center of our parley grounds and one of them began to speak.

I held up my hand to silence him. I didn't really care what he had to say, and I wanted him to know that. I spoke directly to him, trusting the translator to relay my words.

"Do you know this man?" I asked, pointing at Connington.

He nodded before the translator finished asking the question. I suppose it made sense that somebody leading a trading hub like Qohor would be multi-lingual.

"Ask him if the Golden Company will be coming to save you."

He did, in lightly accented common tongue. Connington shook his head. Unprompted, he asked why.

"They're gone," Connington said, his eyes focused on a battlefield only he could see. "All gone."

I felt a little bad about dragging him through this, but his obvious emotional pain conveyed the truth of what had happened in a way that words never could. I saw the lead negotiator's eyes widen before he smoothed out his features into a near-expressionless mask.

I snapped my fingers. The men arrayed around the carts by the road whipped off their covers to reveal the grisly contents within. Each cart contained a pyramid of human heads. Each head was topped with the distinctive spiked cap of the Unsullied.

"You're welcome to count them yourself. We made it..." I turned to Petyr.

"Two thousand, nine hundred and ninety six."

The negotiator's jaw tightened, but he remained silent. I leaned forward, spreading my arms.

"Nobody is coming to save you. Your city will fall. The defenders will die if we fight, as will their commanders. We will take all the riches we can carry."

I leaned back. "The good news is, we will not kill your children. We will not rape your women. We will not pull each stone from stone and burn the rest until nothing is left to mark where your city once stood. We do not do such things."

I paused for a moment. "Of course, you might consider whether the next Dothraki mob to show up will be so considerate."

The negotiator glared at me. "Why do we speak, then, if all this is inevitable?"

"If you don't want a horselord running wild through what's left of your city," I said, then smiled, "you'd better make us one hell of an offer."

ooOoo


End file.
